


Snapshots

by borogroves



Category: Glee
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-04 04:28:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 142,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/borogroves/pseuds/borogroves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>August 27, 2044. They say a picture paints a thousand words... and Kurt and Blaine have a whole scrapbook.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Empty Nest Syndrome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** This chapter PG-13  
>  **Spoilers:** None.  
>  **Disclaimer:** I paint the pictures; I just borrow the names.  
>  **Author's Note:** Constructive criticism and comments are welcome and appreciated! The chapters to come will be told in flashbacks for most pages of The Book as they make their way through, spanning their life together so far. For the purposes of this story, I have decided that—whatever the upcoming canon—Kurt was not accepted into NYADA. Instead, he went to NYU to pursue a fashion career, with Blaine studying music at the same school--I've taken a little artistic license, and they'll be graduating at the same time. Hope that makes sense! Thank you for reading, hope you stay with me!

**Chapter One – Empty Nest Syndrome**  
 _Saturday 27 August, 2044_

For the first time in eighteen years—not counting sleepovers and field trips—the house was utterly silent, and Kurt Hummel-Anderson could barely stand it. Listless and achingly alone, he wandered the Southampton villa from room to room, straightening a picture frame or brushing away an imaginary speck of dust. Ultimately, it was an unnecessary endeavor as everything was in perfect order as always, and Kurt knew it was a symptom of the empty nest syndrome that had settled over his shoulders like a lead weight (despite his repeated protestations to his concerned husband that he was perfectly fine). He found himself at a loose end, utterly and entirely bereft of someone to cook for or talk to or even just sit with in comfortable, companionable silence. He couldn't even bring himself to take a shopping trip into Manhattan—and for Kurt, that was rarer than a blue moon.

Eventually, Kurt made the decision to further wallow in his misery by pulling out the old photo albums and spend the afternoon listening to some classic Gaga while getting lost down memory lane. After a short visit to the library, Kurt was making his way out to the front porch, arms laden with black leather books. Careful not to let his eyes linger too long on the empty seat to his right—Blaine would be home for dinner, for goodness' sake—he took a seat in his rocking chair. Cranking up the volume on the latest incarnation of iPod, a small smile played about his lips as the opening bars of _Bad Romance_ took him back to the days of Glee club, and he turned the first page of the album simply titled “Audrey and Oliver”.

* * *

If he was honest with himself, Blaine was driving a little fast. His mind had been occupied with thoughts of Kurt all day at work, knowing that a breakdown was probably imminent. The twins, Audrey and Oliver, had left for college the previous day and Kurt hadn't gripped his hand that tight, waving off the kids, since their wedding day. No matter what Kurt said, he wasn't “perfectly fine”, and Blaine was wondering in what state he'd find him when he got home. Scratching idly at a week's worth of coarse stubble lining his jaw, he may or may not have let his foot drop a little further on the pedal, anxious to be home and take care of his husband.

Blaine hardly slowed down as he passed through the gates, probably littering the lawn with gravel, but he couldn't bring himself to care as he swung the car around and killed the engine. As he approached, through the white wooden railings he could see Kurt curled up on the porch swing, an open book splayed across his chest. Taking the steps two at a time, he absorbed the sight of books piled around Kurt's rocking chair, and a smaller stack next to where Kurt now lay on the cushioned swing at the opposite end of the porch. Bending to pick up one of the books from next to Kurt, he briefly flicked through the first few pages—worst fears confirmed: Kurt had brought out the photo albums. Kneeling, he gently lifted the open book from Kurt's chest and set it down, twining his fingers through Kurt's and brushing a kiss across his lips.

Kurt stirred in his sleep, holding tighter onto Blaine's hand.

“Hey, baby,” Blaine whispered into his ear, “time for dinner.”

Kurt's eyes opened, and Blaine could see that he'd been crying. “They're really gone, aren't they?” he asked sadly.

“Yeah, baby, they are,” Blaine answered, his thumb tracing patterns on Kurt's palm as he took a seat on the edge of the swing. “But they'll be home for Thanksgiving, and you're back to work on Monday. You'll hardly know it, I promise.”

Kurt sighed, shifting himself into a sitting position before letting his head come to rest on Blaine's shoulder. “If you'd asked me last week about the things I was looking forward to, I would have said 'I'm looking forward to the day those damn kids leave for college and I can finally get some peace and quiet'. Now that it's real...”

“I know, sweetheart,” Blaine soothed, wrapping his arms around him. “I know. I feel it, too. The house seems huge without them running around, fighting, slamming doors, leaving mess in the kitchen after one of their 'experiments'...”

Kurt barked a laugh. “You know, they get that from you.”

“What?”

“The culinary experiments,” Kurt replied, his breath ghosting across Blaine's neck. Even after all these years, it still sent tingles racing down his spine. “Remember the birthday cake?”

“Hey now, to be fair that was more of a culinary mishap than experiment. I had the recipe and everything,” Blaine said, recalling the time he'd attempted to make a birthday cake for Kurt. “There wasn't really _that_ much mess. And you seemed to enjoy licking batter off me.”

“It was the most effective method of cleaning you off,” Kurt agreed, and Blaine could see the humor dancing in his eyes before his shaky smile dropped and he let out another heavy sigh.

“Hey,” Blaine said, turning to face him, “what do you say we put away the photo albums, order in, and break out the _real_ gold?”

Kurt shook his head. “Baby, please don't take this the wrong way, but I just don't know if I'm in the mood—“

Blaine laughed, leaning forward to touch his forehead to Kurt's. “Not to say that I'm not disappointed, but that wasn't exactly what I had in mind.”

It took a moment, but the corners of Kurt's mouth began to lift. “You mean...” he trailed off hopefully.

“I think the situation calls for it, don't you?” Blaine said, standing and offering a hand to Kurt. “Anyway, I'm sure we have a few new additions to make.”

“Alright,” Kurt agreed, reluctantly leaving the comfort of the swing. “But I'll cook, people from the Hamptons don't 'order in'.”

“Then I guess it's a good thing we're from Ohio,” Blaine mused playfully. “You're in no fit state to be cooking, and I've been jonesing for Chinese all day. Just this once?”

Kurt resisted the urge to give his husband a withering look—he never could resist those puppy eyes. The fact that he was suddenly craving Chinese like no other was completely irrelevant. “Okay, but on your hips be it,” he replied as he began to gather up the books, Blaine following suit.

Once the photo albums were back in the library—where, Blaine was determined, they would stay until the kids started bringing home significant others—and the food was ordered, Blaine poured out two glasses of wine and took a seat on the porch, waiting for Kurt to return with The Book.

The Book wasn't something that surfaced all that often, owing in part to the reason for its creation, but mainly for the fact that it was so very special to them both. It was something private, something that not even the kids had seen, and was reserved for times when ice cream and vintage Chateauneuf-du-Pape just wouldn't suffice.

Somewhere towards the end of the year of their separation, with Kurt at college in New York and Blaine finishing his senior year in Ohio, the going had gotten rough—to say the least. They had fought almost every time they spoke, sick of being apart and taking out their frustration on one another. Though neither of them would admit it, they had both thought about ending things on more than one occasion. But one day, a package arrived for Blaine in the form of The Book. It was a simple leather-bound scrapbook, all of the pages blank except for the first. With shaking hands, Blaine had turned the cover, and out fell a letter.

_Dear Blaine,_

_I can't stand how much we've been fighting lately. It's tearing us both apart to be away from one another, I know, but we're taking it out on each other and we just can't keep doing that. We're both stressed out with school work and missing each other and waiting, but baby, it's not much longer now._

_Soon, I'll be home. I'll be there for your graduation (I know I said I couldn't make it; it was meant to be a surprise but I think we both need to share something to look forward to right now), home for the summer and then... Then you'll be here with me and we can wake up together every morning, go to sleep together every night, eat together, watch TV together, sing together, shower together, make love together... All of it will be just the two of us. Us against the world. Not against each other like we have been. And it's going to be the best time of our lives, I promise you._

_Just look at the first page of this book. Look at that picture of us, how contented and happy we were. Baby, I know we've had it rough, but in a couple of short months—between everything we've got going on, they'll fly by!—we'll be together again, for good._

_Let's not fight anymore, okay?_

_I love you._

_xoxo  
Kurt_

Blaine had followed Kurt's instructions and turned to the first page of the book. In the center of the page, on a background of sheet music for 'Candles' was Blaine's favorite picture of the two of them. It had been taken at Kurt's graduation, unbeknownst to them both until Finn had presented Kurt with a framed copy as his going-away gift. They were standing still, foreheads pressed together, fingers entwined at their sides. They were smiling with their eyes closed, calm in the midst of the madness around them. Kurt had decorated the page around the picture, including ticket stubs from the first movie they saw as an official couple, a wristband from the Six Flags at which Blaine had been performing over the previous summer, and a note at the bottom in silver ink, which read:

_“This is the first of many memories I want us to look back on when we're old and gray (but still impeccably fashionable).”_

Blaine had chuckled, not ashamed to be blinking back a few tears as he felt himself falling in love all over again.

“Hey, where are you?”

Kurt's hand slipped into his, and Blaine realized he had been lost in thought. “I'm here,” he said, leaning in and claiming Kurt's mouth with a lingering kiss. “Just thinking about when you first sent me The Book.”

“Well, Mr Hummel-Anderson, there's much more than that to come, so get comfortable,” Kurt said, smiling. The Book sat open in his lap at the very page Blaine had been thinking about, and he passed Kurt his glass of wine before putting an arm around his shoulders and settling in for the evening.


	2. Apartment Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** This chapter NC-17  
>  **Spoilers:** None.  
>  **Disclaimer:** I paint the pictures; I just borrow the names.

**Chapter Two – Apartment Eighteen**  
 _Saturday 27 August, 2044_

Kurt paused at the first page, running his fingers around the two figures in the photograph taken over thirty years previously. “You're so beautiful,” he murmured, curling himself further into Blaine's side.

Blaine pressed a kiss into Kurt's hair, holding him a little tighter. “So are you, handsome. Shall we get started?”

Kurt nodded, turning the page. There were two photographs on the background of notepaper, separated by a round, silver key which Blaine ran his fingers across. “We really shouldn't have kept this,” he murmured. “But I guess it's not doing any harm inside a scrapbook.”

* * *

_Saturday 24 August, 2013_

“Hey, excuse me?” Blaine called out breathlessly, dumping all three large suitcases outside the door of apartment number eighteen and turning to Kurt, just struggling to the top of the stairs with the rest of the bags.

The petite red-haired girl turned, taking in the sight before her with a smile. “You guys just moving in?” she asked.

Blaine nodded, swiping an arm across his forehead and trying to catch his breath. “I'm Blaine, this is my boyfriend Kurt,” he said, shaking the girl's hand.

“Good to meet you both, I'm Penny,” she introduced herself with a warm smile. “Apartment twenty-three.”

“I was wondering if you could take our picture?” Blaine asked, producing a camera from his back pocket.

“We're moving in together for the first time,” Kurt supplied.

“Sure thing,” Penny said, taking the camera and backing up against the bannister opposite their front door, glancing up and around her to check for the best source of light. “Fuck this shitty lighting,” she muttered. Catching Kurt's look of surprise, a faint blush rose in her cheeks. “Sorry. Photography student. Okay, so, if you guys stand together, arms around each other. Just like that, yeah. Now if each of you lean away slightly, I can get the number in between you.”

Kurt and Blaine did as directed, both knowing they'd love how this picture would come out.

“Alright, now, look at the camera and just smile or whatever feels natural,” Penny said, focused entirely on the screen.

Both boys stole a quick glance at the other, before pulling the most ridiculous shocked and excited faces that they could muster. Luckily, Penny managed to take the picture before bursting out laughing. “That's gonna come out great,” she managed to get out in between giggles before raising the camera again. “Alright, now how about a kiss?”

Without hesitation, Kurt leaned forward, pressing himself against Blaine from shoulder to hip. Blaine looped an arm around his boyfriend's shoulders and crushed his lips to Kurt's, a tease and promise of what was to come. Penny took the picture and Kurt slowly pulled away, suddenly hot and restless.

Penny fanned herself and swooned good-naturedly as she handed the camera back to Blaine. “I'll be in my bunk. Catch you in a couple days, right?” she joked with one eyebrow raised, fishing her keys out of her pocket.

Blaine huffed a laugh. “Thanks for this,” he said, pocketing the camera.

“Don't mention it, you guys look hot together,” she replied matter-of-factly, and Kurt blushed as she turned away with a final knowing look.

“We do look hot together,” Blaine breathed into Kurt's ear, running his tongue along the outer shell. Kurt shivered as he inhaled deeply, running his fingers up into Blaine's unruly curls.

“If we don't get these bags inside in the next ten seconds, I'm going to be forced to throw you against this door and get completely dirty,” Kurt said in a low voice, suppressing a laugh as Blaine's eyes widened and he began fumbling for the keys. “Here, let me. I want you to be surprised.”

Having been living in New York for a year already, Kurt had found their new apartment before returning home for the summer and had kept it secret from Blaine, not even telling him where in New York it was located. It was a tiny fifth-floor walk-up, but it was light and airy, and one of the only ones he'd found with a view of something other than a brick wall or a sinister-looking neighbor. Furthermore, the rent wasn't ridiculously steep and Jonathan, the landlord, was totally on board with any changes they wanted to make to the interior (which, with Kurt's taste, felt like a blessing sent from Heaven). Taking bags and suitcases from his boyfriend and unceremoniously tossing them inside the door, he could still hardly believe his luck that someone else hadn't already snapped it up.

“That's the last,” Blaine said, straightening up. Kurt stepped back out into the hallway, covering Blaine's eyes with his hands and guiding him inside the apartment. Kicking the door closed behind them, he took a deep breath, basking in the fact that this would be the home he'd be sharing with his boyfriend for the next three years. Until returning to Lima for Blaine's graduation, Kurt had almost forgotten how good it felt to be able to see him anytime he wanted; to be able to reach out and know that there was a hand there waiting. Having Blaine near always made Kurt stand a little straighter, hold his head a little higher—and now, he had that. For good.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

Kurt took away his hands, suddenly nervous. What if Blaine didn't like it? Oh, God. What if he _hated_ it? For a long time, Blaine said nothing and Kurt's stomach twisted in knots until he could no longer stand it.

“Please say something,” Kurt whispered shakily.

Blaine turned to face him, his eyes dark and unreadable. Kurt hurried on, “look, I know it's a terrible color but the landlord said that we can repaint and he's gonna replace the carpets in a month or so once we're settled, and I know it's nothing like—“

Almost too fast for him to register, Blaine was kissing him hungrily, hands gripping his hips tightly as he backed Kurt into the wall beside the door. Kurt kissed him back just as roughly, capturing Blaine's lower lip between his teeth and pulling away so slowly that it was agonizing. _Fuck,_ did Blaine love it when Kurt did that, and he felt momentarily light-headed as his blood rushed south. They both breathed hard for a second before Kurt glanced over to the island separating the tiny kitchen from the rest of the living area. Following his line of sight, Blaine dragged him over and then they were both clambering on top of the white Formica surface and kissing hard and fast, Blaine's hips rutting against Kurt's as they both grew harder.

“Fuck, Blaine...” The words dropped from Kurt's mouth like a plea as Blaine reached down between them, fumbling with Kurt's belt.

An age seemed to pass before his jeans were being tugged down and Kurt finally, _finally_ felt Blaine grip his cock and begin to jerk it slowly. Kurt moaned, bringing Blaine down for another kiss as he began to spiral higher. Blaine's mouth slid across Kurt's and his hand began to move faster, each pull ending with a slight twist that he knew drove Kurt crazy.

“Blaine,” Kurt moaned between kisses, reaching across to Blaine's waistband.

The loss of contact as Blaine half-rolled away to rid himself of his jeans was almost painful, but within a few seconds Blaine was on top of him, pulling at the neckline of Kurt's tee to get more access to the skin of his collarbone as he ground his hips into Kurt's and Jesus fucking _Christ_ that was good, Kurt thought, reveling in the feeling of Blaine's cock against his own. He would never, ever get tired of this, the way that Blaine poured so much passion into his touches, the way he moaned Kurt's name like something worthy of reverence, the way that he made Kurt feel like he was going to fall off the side of the world if he didn't hold on tight and—

“Blaine, fuck, don't stop,” he moaned, feeling himself wind closer and closer to the edge, glad he had chosen to wear a ratty old t-shirt for moving day despite his number one rule when it came to—SHUT UP, KURT.

“Kurt, I'm so—“ Blaine started, his breath hitching in his chest. “Fuck, I'm—”

“Me too,” Kurt breathed, grabbing Blaine's hip and rocking them faster, harder. Blaine was sure he would end up with bruises in the shape of fingerprints but he didn't care, he needed Kurt closer. In one smooth motion, he flipped them both onto their side and, for a brief moment, felt grateful that there was just enough room for them both on the island before hooking a leg through Kurt's, grabbing him by the collar and letting his teeth graze the line of Kurt's jaw, grinding faster, harder.

“Blaine, Blaine, fuck...” Kurt's nails dug into Blaine's hip as he came and that was it for Blaine; he thrust once, twice and was gone, trembling and holding onto Kurt like he didn't know how to let go.

Breathing heavily, Blaine collapsed back onto the surface of the island, legs tangled with Kurt's and an arm around his waist.

After a long minute of hazy silence, Kurt spoke. “So... you like the apartment?”

“No,” Blaine laughed, capturing Kurt's mouth in a lazy kiss. “I fucking _love_ it.”

“Good,” said Kurt, letting out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. “I know it's nothing like your house in Westerville, but—“

“Shh,” Blaine cut him short, placing a finger across his lips. “That's why I love it so much. It's ours.”

* * *

_Saturday 27 August, 2044_

“Blaine, you know— you know the rules,” Kurt reminded him as his husband's lips found the sweet spot right behind Kurt's ear.

“Hmm, they're stupid rules.”

“We'll never get any fu-further if you carry on like this.”

Pressing one last kiss to the corner of Kurt's mouth, Blaine settled back. “Okay, you win,” he murmured, pausing. “We made some good memories in that apartment, didn't we?”

Kurt nodded, sighing contentedly as he wound his fingertips through the hairs at the nape of Blaine's neck. “Wanna see some more?”


	3. The Kiss That Changed Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** This chapter PG-13  
>  **Spoilers:** None.  
>  **Disclaimer:** I paint the pictures; I just borrow the names.  
>  **Author's Note:** See if you can spot the “Runaway Bride” reference. Comments and constructive criticism are welcome and appreciated! Thank you for reading!

**Chapter Three - The Kiss That Changed Everything**   
_Friday 27 June, 2014_

It wasn't that Blaine was suspicious. That was too strong a word for the uneasiness prickling at the edges of his mind (maybe). Something was going on with Kurt that he wouldn't share, and it was driving Blaine crazy. He couldn't even figure out if it was something good or bad, which was really worrying. They never kept secrets from one another; a long time ago, they had made a pact to always be honest. But the past couple of weeks had had Blaine on edge.

He'd run all of the possible scenarios in his mind, trying to come up with valid reasons for Kurt to be getting home late from class, or taking over an hour to pick up eggs at the Handy-Mart and coming home empty-handed— _the lines were too long, bumped into a friend_ —or stepping into the hallway to take phone calls— _private family matters, needing to yell at someone in Student Finance_ —but he couldn't figure any of it out, and Kurt had only brushed it off as Blaine being silly when he'd asked him about it. That was cause for concern in itself; if there was ever something one of them didn't want to talk about, they said as much. Kurt was keeping something from him, and as much as Blaine hated it, the same nauseating words kept entering his thoughts over and over.

_Someone else._

* * *

It was Pride week in New York, and they'd been out of the apartment every day to participate in all the events they could. Today was the final day, and they'd had tickets for Dance On The Pier at Pier 54 since the second they'd gone on sale. The atmosphere throughout the city had been amazing at each and every event, and now the crowd was congregated on the world-famous pier, partying like the world was ending. Kurt and Blaine had been dancing for hours, drinking and making out along with everyone else, and the way that Kurt could barely keep his hands off Blaine was starting to make him think that he'd been stupid to ever suspect something was up. He felt positively drunk on the air, filled with so much love and acceptance, and he couldn't imagine ever feeling the same sense of belonging anywhere else in the world.

The time ticked on past ten p.m., and the crowd only got wilder. At ten-thirty, the sky over the Hudson would be lit up for the firework display that would serve as the finale, and the excitement was palpable.

“Hello?” Kurt was yelling into his phone. “I can't hear you! Five minutes, I'll call you right back!”

“Who was that?” Blaine shouted, trying to make himself heard over the music and roar of the crowd.

“No one, just—I'll be back, okay?”

And with that, Kurt turned and started pushing his way back through the crowd towards the entrance of the pier, leaving Blaine surrounded but feeling completely alone. It only took a second to decide. “Kurt, wait up!”

Blaine followed after him, intertwining their fingers when he'd caught up. Kurt simply smiled and carried on leading him out, gesturing that they'd be able to talk when they got out of the crush. As soon as they reached the entrance and showed their wristbands to the attendants, they made their way outside and Kurt pulled out his phone.

“Wait,” Blaine said, placing a hand on top of Kurt's. “Look. I have no idea what's been going on with you, but we need to talk about it. A long time ago you and I promised each other, no secrets. So what's going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“If there's... If there's someone else, you can tell me.”

The look on Kurt's face was absolutely incredulous. “Someone... else?”

“Yeah,” Blaine said, digging his hands into his pockets, finding himself unable to look Kurt in the eye. “All the late night shopping errands and never bringing anything back, the phone calls that get taken out into the hall... Look, Kurt, if I'm not making you happy anymore then just—“

“Blaine,” Kurt interrupted, looking so much like he was trying not to laugh, he was about to burst something. “You are so fucking adorable sometimes.”

And with that, Kurt was kissing him feverishly, wrapping himself around Blaine like it was the last time they'd ever touch. It took only a second before Blaine was deepening the kiss, tongue sliding against Kurt's, and all he could think was _there's no one else, there's no one else, there's no one else_ , like a mantra that he was only now daring to believe.

Breathless, Kurt pulled away as his phone began to ring again. “I swear I'll tell you what's going on, just one second while I take this,” he said, squeezing Blaine's hand reassuringly.

Blaine nodded, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat.

“Hey, Mercedes,” he heard Kurt say as he turned to walk a few paces further along the sidewalk. “Yeah, it's crazy here, where are you?”

Within two minutes, Kurt was back, quickly pocketing his phone and looking at Blaine with wild, dancing eyes. Taking his hand, he began leading him back towards the pier entrance. “Okay. Okay, here goes because I haven't got long. So, you know how two weeks ago we were all devastated when Lady Gaga had to drop out of the finale performance, and it was never announced who was going to be replacing her?”

Blaine nodded for Kurt to go on.

“And obviously you know that Kristy's been DJing today,” Kurt continued, referring to one of their best friends from NYU, and Blaine nodded again. “Well, she called me in a blind panic as soon as she got the news, just needing to vent. It turns out that Heritage couldn't get anyone else big at such short notice because everyone is touring this time of year, so we figured out something together... Something that's never been done before.”

It all started to come together.

“We presented our idea to Heritage, and they went for it, Blaine. It's going to be so many kinds of incredible, I can't wait. But I wanted it to be a surprise, which is why I've been so secretive about it,” Kurt finished.

“Well, what is it?” Blaine all but shouted, desperate to know. They were almost at the gates. Kurt opened his mouth to continue, when they were both almost knocked off their feet by a passer-by.

“Watch where you're going, fag.”

Slowly, not daring to even believe what he'd just heard, Blaine turned towards the source of the bigoted Southern drawl. “Excuse me?” he asked dubiously, unable to process the insult on a day like today.

The guy stopped and turned; he was easily six-two and built like a linebacker, mouth curled into a disgusted sneer.

“I said watch where you're going, _fag_ ,” he repeated, taking a step towards them. Kurt tightened his grip on Blaine's hand.

“Blaine, we need to get back inside,” Kurt murmured.

“Yeah, _Blaine_ , listen to your fairy friend,” the guy slurred, puffing out his chest. He was clearly drunk, and if not for the abject hate in his eyes, it would have looked almost comical. Kurt shrank further back towards the gates, trying to pull Blaine with him.

“You do not get to call him that, you backwards, homophobic asshole,” Blaine spat at the guy, voice rising louder towards the end of the sentence. Kurt looked around desperately, trying to get the attention of one of the security guards nearby and breathing a sigh of relief as he saw one already making his way over.

“Problem here, gentlemen?” the guard asked as he reached them. He was even taller and almost twice as broad as the homophobe, who immediately shook his head and raised his hands. “Good. If I see you trying to give anyone else trouble you'll be going home minus your teeth.”

“We're cool,” the guy said, hands still raised as he backed up before turning away completely and half-walking, half-stumbling down the street. Blaine stared after him, wishing it was actually possible to burn holes into someone with his eyes. He didn't even realize he was shaking until Kurt wound his arms around Blaine's neck; he could feel himself tremble as he held Kurt tightly against him.

“We're okay now, thank you,” Blaine murmured gratefully to the guard, who nodded and returned to his post. Kurt took a half-step back and nuzzled Blaine's cheek, letting out a shaky breath.

“You okay, babe?”

“Yeah,” Kurt said, nodding. “You?

“Just... adrenaline,” Blaine replied, grimacing slightly, “and I have to pee.”

“I'll wait here. I still have to tell you about the big surprise,” Kurt teased, some of the excitement returning to his eyes. Blaine couldn't help but take Kurt's face in his hands, leaning in and pressing his forehead to Kurt's.

“I'll be—right back,” he said, punctuating with a quick kiss. Checking for traffic, he jogged across the street to the public restrooms and fought an impulse to take off. Running had always helped keep him grounded when his anger was threatening to take him over and send him tail-spinning backwards: back to that confused and hurt young teenager who wanted nothing more than to beat some sense into the guys who had attacked him. He still couldn't help how his fingers curled into a fist whenever he saw or heard the words “Sadie Hawkins”.

Blaine went about his business quickly, wanting to get back to Kurt and find out what the big surprise was. When he got outside, however, Kurt wasn't waiting for him. Confused, he made his way back across the street and over to the security guard who had intervened. “Hey, did you see where my boyfriend went?”

“I think he went back inside,” the guard replied helpfully. As Blaine nodded his thanks, the guard stepped a little closer to him, a concerned look on his face. “I didn't want to mention this before, but the guy giving you trouble back there was wearing a wristband.”

“What do you mean?” Blaine asked, confused, realizing for the first time that the music had stopped and all he could hear was the roar of the crowd on the pier.

The guard gestured towards Blaine's arm. “He was wearing a wristband like yours,” he said. “I saw him coming back this way while you were gone, but one of the guys distracted me. He could have gone inside. I warned the attendants but they've been rushed off their feet all day, so—”

“Why would he be wearing a wristband? Why would he have even wasted money on the tickets?” Blaine interrupted, feeling his anger bubbling away beneath the surface. A horrible thought was beginning to occur to Blaine, and he swallowed hard against the bile rising in his throat. He didn't think Kurt would have gone back inside without him when he'd specifically said that he'd wait. Blaine shook the thought from his head, pulling his phone from his pocket—no new messages—and replacing it just as quickly.

“We get a couple every year who come down here and try to start some shit. Usually they just hang around the gates, but...” the guard trailed off, taking a breath. He clearly didn't want to be sharing this information; his job was to keep people safe, or at least give the illusion of safety. “But a couple of years ago, a bunch of guys turned up and... A few people ended up in hospital.”

That was enough of a confirmation for Blaine, who turned on the spot and sprinted back through the gates, waving his wristband in one of the attendants' faces. His mind was spinning.

“Kurt! KURT!” Blaine ran from one side of the pier to the other, before turning forward to begin fighting his way through the restless crowd. The entirely open-air stage was still dark as he got closer; the only movement he could see was volunteer roadies rearranging the sound and lighting equipment. Kurt was nowhere to be seen. Frantically, Blaine pulled his cell from his pocket and hit '1' on speed dial, continuing to scan the crowd.

_Hi, this is Kurt, leave a message!_

“God fucking dammit!” Blaine cursed loudly, tugging desperately at his hair and barely restraining himself from hurling the phone into the river. Kurt could be in trouble, somewhere in the middle of the crowd, most of whom were drunk and/or high and could easily mistake aggression for—

_“Blaine!”_

It was him, it had to be. Blaine turned, eyes wildly scanning the crowd, but he still couldn't see Kurt anywhere. Had he imagined it?

Kristy was back on stage announcing the special guests for the finale, and suddenly he could barely hear himself think over the din of the crowd. Kurt was completely unreachable. And he was little, so little. He may have been taller than Blaine, and he hated it when Blaine called him “delicate”, but that's exactly what he was. He wasn't a fighter, he wouldn't know how to hold his own with a fist—or worse—coming towards him. A million images flashed through Blaine's mind and it was all he could do to stay on his feet. The crowd were erupting around him and Kurt had vanished. “KURT! KURT!”

_“It doesn't matter if you love him... or capital H-I-M.”_

Blaine whipped around to face the stage—he'd know that voice anywhere. Thank God. Lit by a single spotlight, Kurt was standing in the middle of the stage, looking directly at him as he raised his arms above his head. He'd changed out of his yellow tee and was wearing what looked like a red and black plaid shirt.

_“Just put your paws up... 'cause you were born this way, baby.”_

The tension rapidly drained from Blaine's body as two girls joined Kurt on stage, their backs to the crowd as they each took one side of Kurt's shirt, hips swaying to the music, and— _is that Mercedes and Tina?_

Blaine started pushing his way through the crowd, trying to get to the front, and as the beat kicked in, the two girls on stage with Kurt ripped open the shirt to reveal a white t-shirt emblazoned with the words, “Likes Boys”.

Relief coursing through him, Blaine met Kurt's eyes and smiled. So this was the big surprise; _Kurt_ was performing the final number—with, now Blaine could see clearly, Tina and Mercedes: a reprise of when they had performed it at McKinley. It all suddenly made so much sense; the secret phone calls, getting home late from classes, being out in the evenings... It was all to make arrangements and hold rehearsals and, presumably, set up the girls with places to stay while they were in New York.

Blaine felt himself relax completely, letting himself melt into the pulse of the crowd around him. He couldn't even find the will to recognize the pain in his ribs as he was pushed harder and harder into the metal railings separating the crowd from the stage. Kurt, Tina and Mercedes were better than they'd ever been before, and—no, it couldn't be.

Blaine could hardly believe his eyes as Santana and Brittany strutted onto the stage: Brittany wearing the “I'm With Stoopid” t-shirt that Blaine had heard so much about, and Santana looking proud to be sporting the words “Likes Girls” across her chest.

_“So hold your head up, girl, and you'll go far,  
Listen to me when I say...”_

The stage was alight. Kurt and the girls were joined by yet more people, and Blaine's smile only grew wider as he began to pick out faces of his friends from McKinley—Puck, Quinn, Sam, Rachel, Finn, Mike... even Sugar and Lauren had showed up. Almost all of the New Directions, back together and performing one of their favorite songs.

Kurt was approaching the front of the stage, quirking an eyebrow at Blaine— _Jesus, he's so fucking sexy_ —as he stripped off his plaid shirt and threw it. Blaine caught it with one hand, mouthing the words “I love you,” to Kurt and trying his best not to feel like a groupie.

“Dude, is that your boyfriend?” a blond guy dancing next to him shouted over the noise, gesturing to Kurt. Blaine nodded, beaming. “Lucky fucking guy!”

“I know!” Blaine replied, digging out his camera—this was definitely something worthy of The Book. He didn't stop taking pictures for the rest of the performance, and the energy of the crowd was so thick and tangible that it seemed to permeate the air, buoying up the New Directions who, by the end of the song, looked positively high as they came towards the front of stage, joining hands for the final line of the song.

_“I'm on the right track, baby, I was born this way, hey.”_

Suddenly, fireworks were exploding, showering the stage with sparks, and there was Kurt at the front, picking up a huge flag, silhouetted against the backdrop of multi-colored lights. Blaine took one final picture before lowering the camera, stunned speechless as he took in the sight of his boyfriend waving the flag high above everyone's heads. He couldn't drag his eyes away from Kurt's face, alight with so much passion, love, the fiercest pride, and admiration for those around him. Blaine's throat tightened and all sounds died away as Kurt caught his gaze and held it. Blaine had never seen someone look so completely, devastatingly fucking beautiful. It was official: he was done for.

And Kurt was jumping down from the stage, running towards Blaine, grabbing the front of his shirt and kissing him and in that moment Blaine knew he would never, could never get enough.

* * *

_Saturday 27 August, 2044_

“I don't think I ever told you, did I?” Blaine mused, absently tracing patterns on Kurt's shoulder as Kurt ran his fingers across the tickets and wristbands included with the photograph.

“Told me what?”

“That when you kissed me, right after this picture was taken, that was the moment,” Blaine answered, almost cryptically.

“What do you mean, what moment?” Kurt asked, confused.

“The moment that I knew you were the one,” Blaine said, and Kurt turned to meet his eyes. “That was the kiss that changed everything. That kiss made me realize that if I didn't ask you to be mine, I'd regret it forever.”

Kurt smiled at that, gently rubbing a thumb across Blaine's cheek, and leaned forward to kiss him tenderly. “Even now...” he murmured against Blaine's lips, “even now, you still take my breath away.”

“That's my job,” Blaine replied.

“So...” Kurt began, pausing. Blaine raised his eyebrows. “That was twenty-fourteen. Why did it take you two and a half years to actually ask me to marry you?”

Blaine shifted awkwardly in his seat and cleared his throat. “Let's, uh... let's carry on,” he said, taking the book from Kurt and avoiding his husband's piercing gaze.


	4. A Fistful of Cement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** This chapter PG-13  
>  **Spoilers:** None.  
>  **Disclaimer:** I paint the pictures; I just borrow the names.

**Chapter Four - A Fistful of Cement**   
_Saturday 27 August, 2044_

“No, Blaine, come on,” Kurt pressed, clamping his hands around the edges of the book. “Tell me.”

Blaine fidgeted in his seat, cupping a hand to the back of his neck and exhaling sharply. “I will. When we get to that picture, I'll tell you why it took me so long. But first, you have to promise me one thing.”

Kurt met his eyes questioningly.

“Promise me you won't skip over the next page,” Blaine said, casting him a knowing look. “I know you've always hated that picture of you but I put it in there for a reason, and you know that.”

Kurt sighed almost theatrically. “Fine, I promise,” he agreed, half-smiling as he rolled his eyes.

* * *

_Wednesday 31 December, 2014_

“Mmm... More, need more,” Blaine moaned, stretching his arms above his head .

Kurt chuckled lightly, fingertips dancing further and further north of Blaine's knees. “You sure you haven't had enough already?”

Blaine shook his head vehemently and Kurt smiled to himself, turning to pick up the glass. He held it to to Blaine's mouth and tilted it up ever so slightly, watching the champagne disappear between his full lips. Blaine's eyes met his and he sat forward, hand snaking around to cup the nape of Kurt's neck. Eyes fluttering shut and lips parted, Kurt leaned in to meet Blaine halfway. The kiss was almost chaste to begin with, Blaine's eyelashes brushing softly against the apple of Kurt's cheek, and he let his tongue slowly run along Blaine's lower lip, flavors that were a combination of champagne and the wonderful, indescribable taste that was simply and inherently Blaine.

“You're drunk,” Kurt giggled, stifling a gasp as Blaine's focus shifted onto his jaw, nipping and sucking his way down Kurt's neck. Okay, so maybe— _maybe_ —he was a little drunk, too. It was New Year's, after all. After a few luxurious moments, he set the glass down and took Blaine's hand in his own. “We should get back to the party.”

Blaine simply responded by letting his arms curl around Kurt's slim waist and pulling him close. “Home,” he breathed, and Kurt shivered. “I want to be fucking you when the clock strikes twelve.”

“But... it's New Years', Blaine. It wouldn't be...” Kurt trailed off, struggling for the right word in his lust- and alcohol-clouded haze, “ _proper_ for us to leave the party now.”

“There's a party in my pants and you're invited,” Blaine countered, absolutely deadpan and completely serious. The urges to roll his eyes and grimace at the cheesy line were almost overpowering but as Blaine looked up at him, wide-eyed underneath those impossibly thick eyelashes, Kurt's resolve crumbled.

“Do I get a VIP pass?” he asked, deciding to play along and trailing the fingers of one hand just underneath the waistband of Blaine's jeans.

“Access all areas, baby,” Blaine replied flirtatiously, and Kurt laughed at how ridiculous it all was before nodding his agreement.

“All right,” he murmured as he stood, pulling Blaine up with him. “All right, let's go.”

Blaine threw an arm around Kurt's waist, grinning and pulling him close as they left the bedroom to make their excuses to Kristy.

“Done making out in my room?” her voice came from somewhere to their right. Kurt turned to Kristy, who was standing with her hands on her hips, and felt momentarily guilty before Kristy burst out laughing. “I'm kidding, it's cool. As long as you put a towel down. You put a towel down, right?”

“We didn't get that far, don't worry,” Kurt reassured her. “But...”

“No. No, no, no, you guys are not leaving my party to go home and have sex after spending the past half hour making out in my room like a pair of teenagers,” Kristy chided them, and if Kurt didn't know her so well, he might have felt intimidated enough to stay.

He glanced at Blaine, whose attention was focused on the other couples dancing and chatting in the living room, before taking a half-step closer to Kristy and whispering, “consider it a favor?”

“What will I get in return?” she said, brushing an imaginary piece of lint from her shoulder and shooting him a meaningful look. For the second time in the past five minutes, Kurt stifled the urge to roll his eyes.

“Okay, okay, I'll design you something. And when I start working at Chanel or Gucci or Prada, you get one—and I mean _one_ —use of my discount,” he bargained, concentrating on staying upright as Blaine's hand found its way underneath the hem of Kurt's shirt.

Kristy considered Kurt's proposal for a long moment before nodding. “Deal. Let's go, then; I'll show you guys out.”

“Kristy's awesome. Like, really awesome,” Blaine slurred, the alcohol seeming to affect him more the longer he was standing.

“She certainly seems to think so,” Kurt agreed as they strode purposefully down the hallway, grabbing their coats on the way. Kurt paused for a moment to help Blaine with the buttons on his chocolate brown pea-coat before shrugging into his thick, fitted leather jacket and zipping it up to his chin as he turned to Kristy. “Thanks for having us.”

“You guys would _so_ be on my list if you weren't so freakin' adorable,” she said as she opened the door, causing both boys to shiver at the sudden blast of cold air. “Now get out of here before I change my mind.”

Blaine smiled widely before pulling Kristy in for a hug. “I love you, you're the best _ever_ ,” he said, making her laugh before he pulled away.

As he turned to the door, everything seemed to slow down for Kurt. He caught something out of the corner of his eye and his heart almost stopped. Kristy's town house (well, Kristy's parents' town house) was a tall, brick building with steps leading down to the sidewalk.

And Blaine's shoelaces were untied.

It was already too late; Blaine had taken a step over the threshold. With his next step, his foot came down on one of the loose laces, and he stumbled forwards. Kurt lunged to grab his hand, the back of his jacket, anything, but he was already falling. With a stomach-churning symphony of dull thuds, Blaine tumbled down the steps and spilled over onto the sidewalk, landing sprawled on his front, a sickening crunch painfully audible as his cheekbone connected with the cement.

Blaine wasn't moving. For a moment that seemed to stretch infinitely, Kurt stood rooted to the spot and the only thing he could hear was the deafening roar of his own racing heartbeat. Then he was practically flying down the steps two at a time as the adrenaline coursing through him swept away the effects of the alcohol in his system. He dropped heavily to the ground beside Blaine, ignoring the hot flare of pain in his knees at the impact.

“Blaine?” he tried, his voice barely above a whisper as he reached out with trembling hands. “Blaine, baby, wake up.”

Nothing. Kurt pressed two fingers just underneath Blaine's jaw, trying to locate a pulse, feeling sick as he struggled to find any sign of life.

 _There._ Finally, Kurt let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding as he shifted his fingers and finally found it, that tiny vital sign that suddenly returned all the color to the world.

Blaine groaned low in his throat, and it was the most beautiful sound Kurt had ever heard. “Ugh... Kurt?”

“I'm here, baby, I'm here,” he whispered, pressing a kiss into Blaine's hair as Blaine shifted on the ground, pushing himself up onto his arms. Kurt stood carefully, supporting Blaine as he slowly got back to his feet. Kristy was steadying his other arm, having followed Kurt down onto the street. Kurt gasped as he took in the sight of Blaine's right cheek; swollen and grazed, with bruises already blossoming under the skin.

“What the fuck happened?” Blaine asked groggily, wincing and putting a hand up to his head.

“You got into a fight with the sidewalk and lost,” Kristy supplied, injecting a little much-needed humor into the tension that clamored at the air around them. “Seriously though, are you okay?”

Blaine blinked slowly, swaying slightly on the spot. “Yeah. Yeah, nothing's broken. Head just feels like it's about to split open,” he answered, smiling shakily at Kurt, who looked like he was about to burst into tears. “Hey, I'm okay. I've lived through worse.”

“I thought that you were—that I'd—“ Kurt stopped himself, choking back a sob and clearing his throat almost gruffly. “Are you _sure_ you're okay?”

“I'm fine, babe, I promise,” Blaine soothed. Kurt nodded, swiping harshly at his eyes and inhaling deeply.

“Then let's go home and get you an ice pack, otherwise that's gonna hurt like a bitch in the morning,” he said, straightening the front of Blaine's coat.

“Are you okay to walk or should I call a cab?” Kristy asked, wringing her hands as if she didn't know what else to do with them. Blaine chuckled slightly, wincing again at the pain in his cheek.

“We'll be fine, it's only two blocks.”

“Right, of course. Okay, well... Just let me know if you need anything, okay?”

“We will. Thanks, Kristy,” Kurt said distractedly, never taking his eyes off Blaine. “Come on, baby.”

 

Back at the apartment, they sat at the small wooden dinner table as Kurt gently cleaned up Blaine's cheek, which had begun to turn a deep wine color. He tried not to flinch at Blaine's low hiss as he applied the ice pack, taking Blaine's hand and placing it on top.

“Better?” he asked, collapsing back into his seat, knees still flush against Blaine's.

“Do I look hot? I look hot, don't I? All bruised and bloodied up. You have to tell people I got into a fight defending your honor or something,” Blaine joked. Kurt shook his head, trying not to smile. “You should take a picture.”

“I'm not taking a picture,” Kurt replied, suppressing a yawn.

“I'm not gonna look this good again for a while, if _ever_ ,” Blaine countered with a dopey grin.

“To be fair, I haven't agreed that you look hot,” Kurt said, lacing his fingers through Blaine's. “I was so worried for a second, there. I thought that you were dead. It was one of the worst moments of my life.”

After a pause, Blaine leaned forward and pulled Kurt into a tight embrace. “I'm sorry I scared you,” he murmured, his breath hot against Kurt's skin. “You don't get rid of me that easily, though. Now, tell me the truth.”

Kurt sat back, casting an appraising eye over Blaine's face as he lowered the ice pack. “Okay, fine. You look hot. Really hot, actually,” he admitted, unable to deny that the bruises and scrapes did give Blaine a slightly rougher, bad-boy edge; a complete contrast to his usual, clean-cut appearance. Blaine wiggled his eyebrows at Kurt, who sighed and pulled their camera from his jacket pocket, snapping two photos in quick succession; one of Blaine holding the ice pack to his swollen cheek, the other of Blaine's lopsided, half-drunk grin. “This isn't exactly what you had in mind, is it?”

“Not really,” Blaine said, pulling Kurt to sit in his lap. “I was meant to be watching you fall apart beneath me right now, and instead you're putting me back together.”

Fireworks began to explode somewhere in the distance, and if Kurt listened hard enough, he thought that maybe—just maybe—he could hear the cheers of the crowd in Times Square.

“That's okay, though,” Kurt murmured, turning his face into Blaine's neck and breathing him in. “You're mine to put back together.”

“Always,” Blaine agreed. “Happy new year, Kurt. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Kurt replied, pressing a kiss to Blaine's uninjured cheek. “Happy new year, Blaine.”


	5. Kurtzilla

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** This chapter PG-13  
>  **Spoilers:** None.  
>  **Disclaimer:** I paint the pictures; I just borrow the names.

**Chapter Five - Kurtzilla**   
_Sunday 10 May, 2015_

The past two weeks had been... difficult. Correction. Blaine was firm in the belief that, over the past two weeks, he had visited every level of hell.

It was finals week at NYU, and in stark contrast to Blaine's own schedule of sit-down exams and a demonstration of practical ability, Kurt had been spending every spare waking moment working on a huge project that would count for seventy percent of his final grade. The project was due the next day, and despite Kurt having meticulously planned his time down to the last second, the one factor he had failed to consider was inspiration. Of which Kurt was fresh out.

Enter Kurtzilla.

Whilst tip-toeing around their apartment as if on broken glass and wading through a veritable ocean of screwed-up balls of paper, Blaine learned many things about this fascinating yet genuinely terrifying creature. Most notably;

1\. Kurtzilla did not like to be touched or disturbed in any way while working. Attempting either could, and often did, result in major bodily harm.  
2\. Kurtzilla could happily subsist on a steady diet of chocolate-coated coffee beans and Red Bull.  
3\. Kurtzilla's grip on sanity was... tenuous at best.

On the other hand, all of the worry and stress had Kurt fucking Blaine with an almost animalistic need and passion multiple times a day. Blaine had never before seen this side of Kurt, who was usually so calm and collected—especially when it came to his work.

He had been walking oddly for days and didn't really mind.

“Kurt,” he sing-songed, fingers walking up his boyfriend's back where he sat hunched over the tiny desk in their bedroom. Kurt shrugged his hand away irritably, almost immediately losing focus on the sketch in which he had been so deeply absorbed. Dropping his head forward into one hand whilst simultaneously tearing the page out of the sketchbook, he gave a loud and frustrated groan.

“Why is nothing _working?_ ” he half-screamed, grabbing another handful of coffee beans out of the jar to his right and gesticulating wildly, “it's like... and nothing's... _why am I not good?!_ ”

“Hey,” Blaine murmured, taking advantage of one of Kurt's more lucid moments and bending to wrap his arms around Kurt's shoulders and rock him gently. “You'll get there. You create amazing, beautiful things every day and you can do this. I believe in you.”

“At least someone does,” Kurt muttered under his breath, relaxing back into Blaine for a fleeting moment before inhaling deeply and running a hand through his hair, which was already standing up in approximately forty-nine different directions at once.

“I have an idea,” Blaine whispered.

“Ideas are good,” Kurt said, exhaustion clear in his voice. “Unless they involve drawing more fucking clothes because I swear to God, Blaine, if I ever so much as think about another dinner jacket, I won't be responsible for my actions.”

Blaine chuckled, before turning to crouch at his side and reaching up to smooth away the creases in Kurt's forehead. Kurt leaned into the touch gratefully, closing his eyes and just letting himself be for a moment. “What's this idea, then?”

Blaine straightened, pulling his wallet from his back pocket and dropping it onto the desk in front of Kurt. “Bloomingdale's,” he said simply, letting the word hang in the air between them.

“Blaine, we have no money,” Kurt said, with much less conviction as he felt. Blaine stepped closer, wrapping his arms around Kurt's shoulders once more and sucking gently on his ear lobe. Kurt gasped, leaning further into Blaine's mouth. “Blaine, we—we can't. I c-can't, I have to... mmm... I just have to-to stay in the room and—“

“Kurt,” Blaine cut him off, slowly trailing his tongue along the perfectly sculpted line of Kurt's jaw. “Do it for the store. She _misses_ you. You're her favorite.”

“You're being s-silly,” Kurt stuttered, feeling himself beginning to grow hard and trying to resist Blaine's words.

“Think of how _lonely_ she must feel. Think of the poor, neglected Jack Spade duffels... Dust gathering on the new season Marc Jacobs...”

Kurt suddenly shot out of his seat, grabbing Blaine's wallet and whirling around with a positively frantic look in his eyes. “We have to go,” he said, striding immediately into the bathroom.

“One condition!” Blaine called, and Kurt reappeared in the doorway with an almost homicidal glare. “Leave your hair like that.”

“It looks ridiculous!” Kurt exclaimed, turning towards the mirror. Blaine crossed the room in three quick steps, pressing Kurt into the door frame, their bodies flush together.

“It looks like I've just fucked you every which way to Sunday,” he practically growled, feeling Kurt shiver as he trailed fingertips across his chest.

“Today is Sunday,” Kurt said absently, eyes closed as he tried to steady himself.

Blaine leaned forwards, eyes dark, and for a moment all thoughts of dusty satchels were forgotten. All Kurt knew, needed, _wanted_ was right there in front of him. Then, Blaine pressed a quick kiss to his lips and said, “exactly.”

Blaine quickly ducked out of the bedroom, and Kurt could hear a jacket being shrugged into and keys jingling. “That doesn't even make any sense!”

* * *

Not for the first time, Blaine thanked his lucky stars for the emergency credit card his father had begrudgingly and at the urging of Mrs Anderson handed over to Blaine the day he had finished packing up the last of his things that would be going with him to New York. After a moment's pause for thought, he thanked them again for the fact that Leon, his father's incredibly supportive accountant was the one discreetly handling any charges on said credit card. Blaine liked being able to treat Kurt to nice things every once in a while. Seeing the way his fingers had reverently brushed across the impossibly soft, light gray leather of the new Marc Jacobs messenger bag made it worth every last one of the six hundred dollars it had cost.

“I love you so much,” Kurt said from the island, still running his fingers over the bag almost disbelievingly before turning to Blaine, his eyes shining. “You know that, right?”

“For a second there I could have sworn you were talking to the bag,” Blaine quipped. “I love you too.”

Kurt smiled, stretching his arms above his head, his happy expression rapidly disappearing as he caught sight of something in the living room. Blaine followed his gaze and swallowed hard. Slowly, Kurt made his way across the room to join Blaine, who stood behind the couch with his hands buried in his pockets and a guilty expression playing about his features.

“Blaine,” Kurt said after a pregnant pause, “what the fuck is that?”

In the center of the living room floor stood a miniature cardboard city that appeared to be made out of leftover cereal boxes and scraps of paper. A closer examination of the model revealed to Kurt quite how much detail Blaine had painstakingly inserted. Bright orange and yellow paper flames the sides of buildings and exploded out of windows, and tiny figures—people, Kurt realized—were running about wildly, some with penned-on faces showing expressions of sheer terror and panic.

“It's Tokyo,” Blaine said, quietly. “There was nothing on TV.”

“What—“ Kurt began, before stopping himself and rounding on his boyfriend. “You have got to be kidding me with this.”

Blaine shrank back almost visibly, not daring to look Kurt in the eye.

“I heard you on the phone to Wes the other night, calling me 'Kurtzilla'; I'm not deaf. Don't you understand, Blaine? This project counts for seventy percent of my grade. Do you have any idea how much stress I've been under? My whole future could be riding on this and you're making fun of me?”

“Only because you're so incredible!” Blaine practically screamed, which made Kurt stop short. Blaine seldom raised his voice—and even more rarely towards him—and judging by the half-wild look in his eyes, this had been simmering beneath the surface for a while. Stepping forward, he grabbed Kurt's arms so tightly it was nearly painful. “You're so incredible, Kurt, and you don't even see it! I looked at some of the things you designed and I was blown away by your talent, but you never think anything you do is good enough! You create these beautiful things and think they're nothing, but they're everything, Kurt. They're everything; they're your heart, your soul, your dreams, your love. They're you, and it breaks my heart to think that you aren't even willing to look at yourself through my eyes. Because you're a fucking _hurricane_.”

Kurt's eyes glimmered with tears, stunned into silence by the outburst.

“I've been watching you kill yourself for the past two weeks and I just can't do it anymore, Kurt,” Blaine said as he dropped his hands to his sides, the anger fading from his voice. “I can't watch you hate and disregard all of that and not say anything, because I love it. I love _you_.”

It was a long moment before Kurt spoke, or even moved, his eyes seeming to search out something in Blaine's. Then, his shoulders sagged and he all but fell forward into the waiting arms that immediately enveloped him in a tight embrace.

“I just don't know what to do. I don't know what to do,” he said as Blaine lowered the both of them gently to the floor.

“Shh, it's okay. It's okay, baby. We'll figure it out together,” Blaine murmured.

Kurt pulled back just far enough to press a shaky kiss to Blaine's lips, before quickly wiping his eyes. “Will you help me? Please?” he asked quietly.

“All you had to do was ask,” Blaine replied, affectionately brushing his thumb across Kurt's chin. “But first, you have to do something for me.”

Blaine quirked an eyebrow and nodded his head in the direction of miniature Tokyo.

“Oh no. No, no, no,” Kurt protested, reading Blaine's mind. “No, 'Kurtzilla' is a thing of the past. This is not going to happen.”

“This is so going to happen,” Blaine said, standing and grabbing the camera from the island. “Go on, get your cute butt over there and make with the _Bad Romance_ hands.”

Kurt gave a long-suffering sigh, before standing and accepting his fate. He was doomed. Cursed to living out his days with a dork of the highest and most ridiculous order possible. A boy who spent Sunday afternoons making miniature cities and screaming civilians out of cereal boxes and then making him pose for pictures. It was cruel and unusual punishment, really.

But as Kurt took his place in amongst the buildings, raising a foot off the carpet whilst baring his teeth and “making with the _Bad Romance_ hands”—if he was really going to do this, he would do it right—he took in the sight of his boyfriend studying the screen of the digital camera and was filled with a sense of contentment. Because when he was totally honest with himself, a life with Blaine didn't seem like a curse at all. It actually seemed kind of magical. Blaine Anderson may have been a dork, but he was his dork.

_Click!_

“Are we... Wait,” Kurt murmured as he glanced down at the models littering the carpet, a sense of absolute calm washing over him. He lowered his arms, placed his foot gently on the floor between two burning skyscrapers, and felt the rusty cogs in his head begin to turn in exactly the right direction. “That's it.”

“What's 'it'?” Blaine asked as he pocketed the camera.

The next second, Kurt crossed the living room floor in two quick strides. “That's it, Blaine! That's it, that's it, that's fucking _it_! Best—boyfriend—ever,” Kurt exclaimed, kissing Blaine hard on the mouth to highlight each word. And then he was gone, disappearing into the bedroom and humming happily to himself.

A few minutes later, Blaine looked in on Kurt to see him drawing furiously, pausing every so often to smile at his work.

“Babe? You need anything?”

“Red B—um... Could I maybe get some tea?” Kurt asked with a sheepish smile, catching himself at the last moment.

As Blaine turned back towards the kitchen, he shook his head. Who'd have thought that acknowledging the monster would finally make it disappear? Glancing across to the living room one last time, he tried hard to fight off the confusion at the prospect of Kurt somehow being inspired by his somewhat rudimentary creations.

Sometimes, Blaine _really_ didn't understand how his boyfriend's mind worked.


	6. Me and Mr. Jones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** This chapter NC-17  
>  **Spoilers:** None.  
>  **Disclaimer:** I paint the pictures; I just borrow the names.

**Chapter Six - Me and Mr. Jones**   
_Saturday 27 August, 2044_

“Remind me again why it was so important that we include these pictures,” Kurt grumbled, brushing a few chestnut strands away from his face. Blaine had started to notice the beginnings of gray hairs around Kurt's temples—something which had, at first, mortified Kurt but that he was now growing used to. Blaine couldn't help but find Kurt more attractive than ever, coupled with the fact that his husband was slowly catching him up; Blaine's now salt-and-pepper curls had begun to turn five years previously, and both Blaine's husband and his agent, Cooper, steadfastly refused to let him reach for the _Just for Men_.

“Because you can't appreciate the good without the bad. They're in there to remind us that even at our worst or craziest moments, we still found a way through. You still managed to turn in a project that looked like you had spent the entire two weeks on it rather than six hours, and you still managed to come top of the class,” Blaine replied, still feeling that same swell of pride in his chest, even after all the years that had passed. He slipped his hand into Kurt's, giving it a small squeeze. “Though I still to this day have no understanding of how miniature burning Tokyo inspired you.”

“And you never will, so I won't try to explain it again,” Kurt said, almost smugly. He turned to the next page of the book and gave an involuntary shiver, a contented sigh escaping from his lips. “I remember saying back then that that afternoon was the best sex of my life.”

“I hope I've improved on it since,” Blaine mused, taking in the image of his twenty-year-old self splattered with cake batter, the photograph accompanied by brightly patterned cupcake cases and a copy of the recipe from which he'd been attempting to work.

“Over and over,” Kurt answered softly.

* * *

_Tuesday 26 May, 2015_

Pleased with his progress so far, Blaine stepped back to survey the island. He had the recipe, the oven was pre-heating to the correct temperature and all of the necessary ingredients were laid out before him. Everything he needed to make the cake for Kurt's twenty-first birthday. And to think that Kurt had been both ready and expecting to make it himself! Blaine wrinkled his nose at the thought as he rolled up his sleeves. At first, Kurt had been apprehensive. His cakes were usually quite elaborate, taking hours to make, finish and perfect. He simply wouldn't have the time to start over if Blaine was unsuccessful. So yes, perhaps Blaine hadn't been entirely truthful when telling Kurt of his 'vast' amounts of kitchen experience, but it was a cake. How difficult could it really be?

Hitting play as he pointed the remote control in the general direction of the stereo, his ears were greeted by the familiar strains of _Perfect_ by Pink. Smiling to himself as he made a wrong turn (once or twice) down memory lane, surrounded by the warmth and vanilla scent of Kurt's beloved old Navigator, he grabbed a wooden spoon from the utensil holder and set to work.

Ten minutes of thorough mixing later and Blaine's arms were beginning to ache; he was experiencing a newfound respect for his boyfriend, especially given the amount of baking that he did. He made it look so effortless, and the results were never anything short of mouth-watering. A number of Blaine's college friends had, upon sampling Kurt's red velvet cupcakes, declared themselves in love—even a couple of the straight guys—and proceeded to call dibs in case Kurt ever found himself single.

Pausing for a moment to stretch out his fingers and roll his wrist to try and release the knot of tension that had formed there, his mind scrabbled around for an easier method. Scanning the tiny kitchen, his attention settled upon the cupboard underneath the sink. Grinning, he bent to retrieve the small, electric hand mixer that had been languishing there since they had finished unpacking. It had been part of a housewarming gift from Blaine's mother, but Blaine rarely cooked and Kurt always preferred to mix by hand, using the methods he had learned from the late Elizabeth Hummel.

Plugging in the mixer, he flicked the switch experimentally and smiled as it loudly whirred to life in his hand. Oh, yeah. This was going to make things a whole lot easier. Judging by looks alone, trying to feel like he was a seasoned professional, Blaine guessed that the batter would only require a thirty-second blast to get rid of any remaining lumps. He lowered the mixer with one hand and awkwardly reached across to switch it on with his other. At the last second, he noticed the 'turbo' button and decided to throw caution to the wind.

Five seconds later, stunned and covered in cake batter with the upturned mixing bowl spinning and clattering to a loud stop on the floor, Blaine realized his mistake.

“Shit,” he muttered. “Shit, shit, _shit_.”

A soft _click_ and a bright flash brought him out of his daze, and his head shot up to see Kurt standing on the other side of the island, keys dangling from his hand as he lowered that damn camera.

“When—ugh. How much did you see?”

“I think I came in at pretty much the perfect moment, Bridget,” Kurt replied, biting his lip as his shoulders shook from the hysterical laughter he was desperately trying to hold in.

“Go ahead, you can laugh,” Blaine muttered, suddenly feeling altogether useless.

“You, um... You've got a little something,” Kurt murmured, fingertips brushing the side of his face.

Blaine mirrored the gesture, but succeeded only in smearing around the smudge of cake batter on his cheek. He shook his head, frustrated. “Why am I so full of fail?”

Kurt dropped his bag and keys onto the bar stool, rounded the island and took Blaine by the hand. “Come with me,” he whispered, fingers running along the inside of Blaine's wrist. He obeyed, with a cursory glance backwards at the mess. Seeing this, Kurt locked eyes with him and shook his head, continuing to pull Blaine towards their bedroom.

“Sit,” he said, his fingertips on Blaine's chest gently guiding him backwards. He slowly removed his jacket and shirt, leaving on only a thin black tank, and climbed onto the bed to straddle Blaine's lap. Blaine absently noted that Kurt was wearing a set of dog tags; contrasted against Kurt's lithe frame, it was a good look for him. “Now. We need to get you cleaned up. How do you propose we go about that?”

Seeing the playfulness dancing in Kurt's eyes—which appeared, at that moment in time, a hungry mix of deep blue and steel gray—Blaine couldn't help but shiver, his hands trembling as he tentatively rested them on Kurt's thighs.

Without another word, Kurt leaned forward and ran his tongue along the line of Blaine's jaw. “Hmm. That seems to be working,” Kurt mused, licking his lips and meeting Blaine's eyes with a hungry look. “Tastes good.”

Blaine's cock twitched hard at that; Kurt simply smiled and tugged the hem of Blaine's t-shirt up and over his boyfriend's head before leaning further into him, pressing him to lie back on the mattress. Hands holding onto Blaine's sides and thumbs tracing figures of eight into his ribs, each soft touch filled with his love and passion, Kurt pressed his mouth to Blaine's neck and sucked away a smear of sweetness.

“Kurt,” Blaine breathed, his hands snaking up underneath Kurt's shirt and gripping the curves of his shoulders.

Kurt hummed in response, licking away another spot at the base of Blaine's neck. As he grazed Blaine's collarbone with his teeth, Blaine couldn't help bucking his hips up into Kurt's. Kurt immediately reciprocated, grinding down into Blaine, and all at once there was too much separating them: clothes; inches; air. He leaned down, crushing his lips to Blaine's and grabbing a fistful of those stupid, messy curls, and Blaine's hands were underneath his thighs, pulling and demanding that he be closer.

“I used to make up songs about you all the time, in my head,” Kurt murmured, slowly rolling his hips as he sat back, letting his fingers trace over Blaine's skin without making any contact. “Before we were together, when you kissed me, the first time you said you loved me, in the damn Lima Bean, of all places. Every—ah—single thing you did and it was like there was a chorus line in my head and I was writing musicals about how you're my boyfriend and—mmm—I love you and hey, just pointing that out to everyone.”

Blaine's breath caught in his throat and he was momentarily lost for words. “I...”

“Shh. This is about you.” Eyes dark, Kurt trailed a single finger across Blaine's lips and there it was, that was it, they were locked at the mouth and fumbling to remove clothes as quickly as they could. Kurt kept on the dog tags; Blaine had never seen him look so irresistibly hot and grabbed them to pull his boyfriend back down on top of him, groaning and arching into Kurt's skin as he wrapped his fingers around Blaine's flushed erection. His kisses were luxuriously— _agonizingly_ —slow, and as Kurt's fingers settled around the base of his cock, he dragged his way down Blaine's body to take him in his mouth.

“Jesus, fuck,” Blaine moaned at the sight of Kurt's hollowed cheeks, carding his fingers back and forth through Kurt's hair and struggling to keep his hips from bucking up into the wet heat that surrounded him. He could feel it when Kurt relaxed his throat to take more at once, humming around him as and Blaine almost came right there and then. “How are you so fucking _good_ at this?”

Kurt chuckled low in his throat, the vibrations rippling through Blaine's entire body, and Kurt was sucking two of his own fingers into his mouth as well, then dropping his hand down and pressing against the tight ring of muscle there. Blaine moaned, letting his legs fall further apart and taking a breath to pause and relax himself, relieved to have taken a somewhat thorough shower just before setting to work in the kitchen—though since just after their first time together, it had become second nature. Kurt gently pushed inside, just staying there for a second to let Blaine adjust, before slowly and rhythmically moving in and out, shallow and deep, scissoring a little before adding a third at Blaine's urging.

It was a well-rehearsed dance between them, but somehow always managed to be new and different; they never did things quite the same way twice, almost like Kurt with his outfits—always changing a little something up to keep things fresh.

Blaine was suddenly empty and it felt like a bereavement; he needed Kurt inside him, needed him to fill him up and ride the wave with him, make him forget all about his disastrous attempt at doing something for Kurt instead of him having to do it all by himself. But no sooner was Kurt removing his fingers than he was pushing Blaine's knees further apart and lining himself up; Blaine could feel his cock against the underside of his thigh, somehow slick with lube and okay, he had never found multi-tasking a turn-on before but damn. Then Kurt was pushing inside and Blaine felt dizzy and quiet and peaceful on the precipice; that first moment of adjustment, of release, of settling. His fingertips brushed numbly against Kurt's chest, every line and contour perfectly committed to memory yet still scrabbling for purchase on the smooth, pale skin.

Sometimes, when Kurt began to move inside of him, pulling almost all the way out before burying himself to the hilt—rinse, repeat, _forever please_ —it was all Blaine could do to keep from shoving a fist into his mouth and fighting back tears at the overwhelming love he felt for him. This cluster of heart and soul and emotion and passion and everything that Blaine had been looking for forever, that he had for so long been oblivious to, and here he was giving Blaine everything he needed and wanted and more. Always more, more than he could ever have asked for. Kurt began moving faster as he leaned over him, supported by a hand on the bed by Blaine's neck, his lips parted and Blaine's name falling from between them.

Sweat shimmered on his forehead and he met Blaine's eyes, a darkness there that Blaine would never get used to. “Fuck, Kurt,” he choked out as Kurt thrust into him, his whole body tensing and relaxing all at once as Kurt moved within his core and Blaine grabbed his hips, surging upward to capture Kurt's mouth with his own, meeting him thrust for thrust. Their kisses were sloppy and mismatched, more their lips sliding against each others with clumsy abandon rather than kissing, just desperate for more contact because any less would be so far below enough.

“Harder,” Blaine pleaded, growled, begged from somewhere deep down where his climax was building. Kurt's fingernails raked down his chest hard enough to leave angry red trails in their wake and he gripped Blaine's hip, fucking into him with everything he had, dropping his head to his chest as he felt Blaine constrict around him, eyes squeezed shut and crying out Kurt's name as he came between them, shaking and jerking upwards. Kurt's head fell onto Blaine's shoulder and, trembling, his thumb brushed up over Blaine's neck, chin, jaw, fingers fisting into his hair as he tumbled over the edge, biting his lip to keep from screaming.

A silence broken only by their rapid breathing followed, and Kurt curled into Blaine's side, wrapping himself around him to watch the rise and fall of his chest. Blaine drew patterns onto the back of his neck with shaking hands, eyes unfocused on the ceiling above them and a warm, sated smile on his face.

“It's nearly your birthday.”

“Hmm... I know.”

Blaine pulled him closer, pressing a kiss into hair that Kurt had left mostly loose that day. Or maybe he was imagining that; Kurt's best friend was a can of hairspray.

“Best ever,” Kurt whispered.

“And I'm clean. Of cake batter, at least.”

“It would have been delicious.”

Blaine smiled at that, and Kurt could feel it against his hair. “No one's ever offered to bake me a birthday cake before. Not since mom,” Kurt murmured by way of explanation, and suddenly it all made such perfect sense. “Even if it didn't work out the way you hoped, I love that you wanted to try. ...Bridget.”


	7. The Bus Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** This chapter PG-13  
>  **Spoilers:** None.  
>  **Disclaimer:** I paint the pictures; I just borrow the names.

**Chapter Seven - The Bus Boys**   
_Saturday 27 August, 2044_

Blaine collapsed into laughter as they touched upon the next set of pictures in The Book.

“I will never, ever get over your face when I asked you—when I asked you—”

“You know, it's incredibly unattractive when you snort like that,” Kurt interrupted. “Besides, it was all Flint's fault. There's a reason it took me two months to speak to him again after that night.”

Blaine held his fist to his mouth, eyes crinkling at the edges as he struggled to keep his laughter in check. “Alright, alright. It was completely Flint's fault. You know that I had no idea. But it all worked out in the end, right?”

Kurt sniffed disdainfully. He was, however, unable to resist a small smile as he took in the picture of Blaine and the rest of the former Warblers congregated in the underground parking garage.

“We should round them up and have them all over for dinner one of these days,” he murmured. “A Warbler reunion, of sorts.”

Blaine nodded, leaning in and resting his head on Kurt's shoulder. “I'd like that.”

* * *

_Saturday 17 October, 2015_

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“Kurt.”

“No.”

_“Kurt.”_

“...No.”

“Fine,” Blaine huffed from his seat at the back of the shopping cart. He'd been holding Kurt's hand awkwardly over his shoulder, but now pulled it away, crossing his arms over his chest. Kurt fought back the urge to laugh, stopping in the middle of the aisle and bending down.

“If I told you what it was, it would ruin the surprise,” he murmured next Blaine's ear.

“I don't want a surprise, I want a party bus,” Blaine muttered under his breath.

“I told you,” Kurt began carefully as he straightened up and carried on walking, “that they're tacky and anyway, what I've got planned is much, much better than some ridiculous bus with TVs and a stripper pole.”

Blaine sniffed. “I was going to dance for you, you know.”

“I know, baby,” Kurt said after a deep breath, patting Blaine's shoulder. “I know.”

* * *

“Kurt, this is ridiculous. Can I just take off the blindfold? I know it's not a party bus, we're not even outside or anything. And I'm pretty sure that cab driver thought you were kidnapping me to make me a sex slave, or something.”

“Trust me, you'll gladly be my sex slave when you see. Okay, step down... Now turn left... And stop.”

Kurt stepped around to face Blaine, his fingers snaking around to the back of Blaine's head and fiddling with the knot. Leaning in, he lightly brushed his lips across Blaine's. “Happy birthday,” he whispered, finally whipping the blindfold away and stepping to the side.

_“SURPRISE!”_

Blaine's eyes went wide. Everyone was there. Wes, David, Jeff, Nick, Thad, more of his Dalton boys than he could count. The Warblers. All in New York City for his birthday, all clapping and cheering, all wearing ridiculous hats and—for some reason—fake mustaches, all standing in front of—

“No way,” he breathed, turning to Kurt.

“Just call me your Fairy Godmother,” Kurt said, before scrunching his nose up. “Actually, don't. That could easily be taken—“

“Shut up,” Blaine growled, grabbing the lapels of Kurt's jacket before roughly crushing their lips together. “You got me the bus.”

“Yes, I got you the damn bus,” Kurt replied, winding his arms around Blaine's neck. “I couldn't _not_ ; it's the one thing you asked for. You even said if I got you the bus, I didn't have to get you a present. Which I did, by the way.”

“Kurt,” he sighed. “You're incredible.”

“Yes, I am,” Kurt agreed, satisfied.

“Um, guys?”

Kurt and Blaine turned, and saw Wes looking at them pointedly. They stepped apart sheepishly, Kurt smoothing down his collar with a faint blush. Blaine grabbed his hand and ran over to the Warblers, hugging each of them in turn; Kurt doing the same.

“How did all of you guys manage to be here at the same time? Don't you have, you know, college? Lives?”

“Well, yeah. But, as all of us are already twenty-one and therefore older than you,” David ribbed him, “we have access to our trust funds. And besides, Blaine, it's _you!_ ”

Blaine smiled wider than Kurt had even seen—which was saying something, given his annoying habit of being almost perpetually happy—and pulled David into another hug. “Just, um... what's with the mustaches?”

Thad shook his head. “It was Jeff's idea.”

Blaine turned to Jeff, who was wearing a black handlebar mustache that contrasted horrifically with his hair. He had his hands behind his back. “We're all old men, now. And as of midnight tonight, so are you,” he said, almost too smugly, producing a clear box that contained a black Fu Manchu mustache and holding it out. Blaine grabbed it a little too eagerly for Kurt's taste, pulling on the party hat that Wes offered before immediately sticking on the mustache. He looked absolutely ridiculous.

“Kurt, take a picture of us!” he exclaimed, and in true Warbler style, they followed his lead and lined up in front of the bus, Blaine in the middle, all grinning like there was no place in the world they'd rather be.

_Click!_

* * *

_This is chaos,_ Kurt mused, swallowing another healthy mouthful of his drink and taking in the pandemonium around him. _I love it._

Two hours after the big surprise reveal and everyone was already drunk, or at least on their way. As the bus cruised around central Manhattan, they had played a drinking game; a gulp for every time they got honked at. Thad and Nick, neither of whom had visited New York before and therefore had no idea what the drivers were like, didn't listen to the others' protestations that taking a shot—instead of a healthy gulp of a beer or cocktail—every time was a very, very bad idea. They had been charged with keeping count, and had promptly lost it somewhere after twelve. As a result Nick was currently in the middle of an incredibly drawn-out and embarrassing striptease, insisting that Blaine simply had to have a birthday lap dance to the backdrop of Rod Stewart's _Do You Think I'm Sexy_ blaring at full volume, with the slightly more coherent former Warblers providing a harmony of what Kurt could only guess were meant to be sex noises. In a strange way, it worked.

Nick's thumbs were hooked in the waistband of his ridiculously tight boxer briefs ( _honestly,_ Kurt thought, _he may as well not be wearing them for how little they leave to the imagination_ ) and he was about to take them off completely when Wes suddenly staggered to his feet, banging the bottom of his beer against the table as if it were a gavel—old habits die hard—and announced that they needed to fire up the karaoke machine. The dollar bills that David and Jeff were holding as they sat either side of a red-faced Blaine fluttered out of their fingers and Nick looked like someone had just kicked his puppy. Blaine's stood, sliding carefully past Nick, and plopped himself down next to Kurt.

“I wanna _live_ on this bus,” he slurred, winding his arms around Kurt's shoulders and climbing into his lap. “Can we live here, please?”

Kurt smiled and nodded, slowly brushing his hands up and down Blaine's thighs. “It's a lot less tacky than I thought it was going to be,” he admitted, melting a little at the look of pure and unadulterated joy he received in return. “There's even a disco ball.”

“Best birthday ever. Best _boyfriend_ ever,” Blaine affirmed, draining the contents of Kurt's cocktail glass before immediately pressing their lips together to pass him the remaining drops of Tequila Sunrise—albeit a somewhat stronger version than what Kurt was used to. Blaine's mustache tickled as the tequila warmed him from the inside, and his skin felt on fire at every touch; he hummed into Blaine's mouth as their tongues slid lazily against one another, those wonderful drunk kisses where every nerve ending is aflame.

 _Marry me_ , Kurt thought, and pulled back, blinking in surprise. Thankfully, at that moment, Jeff staggered over, throwing an arm around Blaine's neck.

“Dude. Bro. _Dude_ , you have to sing. Kar-kar-karaoke,” he managed, holding in a burp. “Wes is demanding that shit. And drink more; the liver is evil and must be punished.”

Kurt cleared his throat, suddenly feeling awkward but doing his best to shake it off as he caught Blaine's eye and nodded with as big a smile as he could muster. Blaine reluctantly clambered into an upright position, readjusting his mustache before reaching down to straighten Kurt's collar. “Be right back,” he said with a wink, voice low and eyes dark.

Kurt simply sat, shocked at the force of his own thoughts. _I'm just drunk. Just good and drunk and it's not like I've never thought about marrying him before. The color scheme is going to be a challenge with our skin tones, and of course it will somehow have to tie in with the season. Fall. Maybe August twenty-eighth, for mom's birthday?_

He glanced up. Blaine was graciously accepting the microphone from Wes with an exaggerated gentleman's bow, and Kurt couldn't help but smile as the TV screens lit up with lyrics and the opening bars of the song poured from the speakers.

“ _You think I'm pretty without any make-up on,_ ” Blaine sang, his hazel eyes burning with a combination of love and Scotch as he looked at Kurt and the Warbler collective chimed in with backup. Kurt settled back into his seat, shaking himself a little to pull himself from his reverie, and let the song wash over him.

 _Perhaps Gotham Hall,_ he thought with a smile. _You are cordially invited..._

* * *

It was closing in on eleven o'clock, and the party was headed to _Pieces_ , the famous Christopher Street gay bar in the West Village. Thad and Nick were passed out on the floor of the bus with graffiti all over their faces (courtesy of Wes and David) and their mustaches super-glued on (courtesy of Jeff). Kurt had tried to stop them—honestly, the effects that Sharpie ink and strong adhesives could have on the skin were the stuff of nightmares—but instead, coupled with the fact that Blaine had chosen that exact moment to deliver his promised pole dance, it had him on the floor clutching his sides and shaking with laughter.

“You okay, Kurt?” asked Flint from somewhere behind him, gingerly placing a hand on his arm. “Dude, say something, you look like you're having a seizure.”

Kurt finally rolled onto his back and let out a howl of laughter, tears streaming down his face. Flint broke out into a grin, taking Kurt's hand and pulling him to his feet. Kurt smoothed out the wrinkles in his jacket as much as he could, before thinking better of it and taking it off completely, folding it and putting it into one of the lockers to the side of the seating area. He had to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek as Blaine practically fell from the pole in the middle of trying to hang from it upside down.

“He's having a good time,” Kurt observed happily, basking in his alcohol buzz.

“Dude, this is like, the best birthday he's ever had. I mean, he's a pretty animated guy but I've _never_ seen him like this,” Flint replied, putting an arm around Kurt's shoulders. “He's lucky to have you; my girlfriend would never do something like this.”

“I hated the idea when he first suggested it,” Kurt admitted, smiling to himself a little. “But it's actually been really fun. And I'm glad Blaine's enjoying himself.”

“He's gonna marry you, you know,” Flint said matter-of-factly, stretching his arms over his head. Kurt froze, eyes locked on Blaine in the middle of his fairly accurate impersonation of Tom Cruise in _Tropic Thunder_.

“What?”

“I mean, he hasn't said anything but we've all known him a long time. It's written all over his face every time he looks at you.”

“Really?” Kurt asked, his voice barely audible over the pounding beat of _Low_ by Flo-Rida.

Flint nodded. “Oh, yeah. The guys have got a bet going as to who's going to be in the wedding party.”

“Who are the favorites?” Kurt asked absently, his mind reeling as Blaine met his eyes and stopped dancing.

“Your brothers,” Flint answered, taking a drink. “But just between you and me, Wes is kind of desperate to get in on that—not that he'd ever say as much.”

Kurt managed a shaky laugh, not understanding why he suddenly felt like he'd fallen off the edge of the world. It wasn't like it was definite. Nothing in life ever was, after all. This was only the shared opinion of their friends; it wasn't like Blaine was coming towards him right then...

Or reaching into his pocket...

And he definitely was _not_ dropping to one knee in front of him...

_Oh, shit._

“Kurt?” Blaine began, taking hold of Kurt's left hand.

Kurt looked around wildly, unable to meet his boyfriend's eyes as he silently prayed for an intervention. _Not here, not now, not on a goddamn fucking party bus! We're both drunk, we're too young, we have no money, I AM NOT GETTING MARRIED AT CITY HALL!_

“Would you do me the honor...”

Kurt swallowed, feeling faint.

“...of becoming my gay bar superstar, for one night only?”

Kurt glanced down at his wrist, around which Blaine was fashioning a bracelet out of a glow stick. He swayed on his feet, relief coursing through him, and sank to the floor to throw his arms around Blaine's neck.

“How could I refuse?” he replied, one eyebrow raised, before catching Blaine's mouth with his own to rapturous applause.

“Yeah, let's blow this joint!” Thad roared, still half-passed out on the floor, before once again succumbing to unconsciousness.

* * *

“Very nicely done,” Wes loudly congratulated Kurt, who had successfully caught the bartender's attention by holding his arm out across the bar, a twenty dollar bill folded between his index and middle fingers.

“Try it when you're hailing a cab. Works every time!” Kurt replied smugly, leaning back into Blaine, who had his arms wrapped around Kurt's middle and was swaying them from side to side in time with the beat. “Though it helps to always look as fabulous as _moi_.”

“Let's dance, baby,” Blaine murmured, a haze of whiskey licking across Kurt's jaw as he found himself being led to the middle of the dancefloor.

They were surrounded by a sea of bodies, the scents of sweat and alcohol intermingling in the rising atmosphere. Blaine's arms were around his waist, hands sliding down to hook his fingers in Kurt's back pockets and tug him closer; chest to chest and hip to hip. The song was a fast one, full of tripping beats and a dirty bass line, but just like always, they swayed in time with their own tune. It was almost out of character for Blaine, who was never one to shy away from dancing like no one was watching—though, usually, they were—but Kurt let himself enjoy it, feeling the fuzzy edges of his consciousness beginning to come back into focus.

“Hmm. How are you ever going to top this, Mr. Hummel?”

“Don't even go there, Mr. Anderson.”

Blaine fell quiet, moving against him in time with the music, fitting his body against Kurt's like it was made only for him. “You thought I was going to ask you—“

“—to be your gay bar superstar,” Kurt finished for him, and he could feel Blaine's smile against the curve of his neck.

“But for the rest of our lives,” Blaine said as he pulled back, searching Kurt's eyes with his own. Kurt settled for leaning his forehead against Blaine's, brushing a thumb over his bottom lip before claiming his mouth in a deep kiss.

“If there's one thing that you've taught me, Blaine Warbler,” Kurt said, fondly, “it's that we're worth waiting for.”

* * *

_Saturday August 27, 2044_

“Kurt?”

“Mm?”

“Were we?”

“Were we what?”

“Worth waiting for?”

Kurt laughed that musical laugh of his and pulled Blaine closer. “How do you even remember me saying that? We were both completely drunk and I didn't even think you could hear me.”

“Well,” Blaine said, “as much as I'd love to say that I remember everything about that night... I remember the way we danced, like we could never get close enough. I remember that deer-caught-in-headlights look in your eyes when I was down on one knee. I remember lip-reading your words and being more sure than I ever was that I was going to belong to you, someday.”

“You belonged to me ever since that moment on the stairs.”

“I know,” Blaine replied. “...Kurt?”

“Yes,” Kurt said. “We were.”


	8. Never Forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** This chapter PG-13  
>  **Spoilers:** None.  
>  **Disclaimer:** I paint the pictures; I just borrow the names.  
>  **Note:** I'd like to dedicate this chapter to dr_crgirl on LiveJournal, who (as far as I'm aware) was the first person to recommend this story. Granted, it's a bit of an odd chapter to dedicate, but nonetheless I'm proud of it, and it's for her. Thank you to all of you who have been reading and commenting so far; I really can't tell you how much your appreciation for this story means to me. It's become something so close to my heart. I'd like to direct you all over to my [Tumblr](http://borogroves.tumblr.com) if you have any questions about the story you'd like to ask.  
>  **ETA, 15 Apr 2012:** [Maya](http://wordsdontrhyme.tumblr.com) over at Tumblr made me some [beautiful, breath-taking fanart](http://wordsdontrhyme.tumblr.com/post/21110756195/they-say-a-picture-paints-a-thousand-words-and) for this chapter. Please go on over there and show her some love; it's the first piece of fanart I've ever received for this story and it's terribly, terribly wonderful.

**Chapter Eight - Never Forget**   
_Saturday 27 August, 2044_

“Honey, before we turn the page,” Kurt began, his fingers stilling at the corner, “you know we don't have to.”

Blaine took a deep breath, rubbing a hand over his eyes and pinching between them. Seeing this, Kurt reached across into the top pocket of his jacket, producing Blaine's black-framed reading glasses. Blaine took them with a tight smile, and after putting them on, caught Kurt's hand with his own.

“I think it's important that we finally do,” Blaine said thickly, his voice laden with grief, and Kurt's heart broke a little for him all over again. He was still so young in so many ways. “We've always skipped it in the past, but... Everything that's in here is in here for a reason. It's all important, even the things we'd rather try to forget. And he asked me never to forget.”

Kurt squeezed his hand, and Blaine nodded mutely before turning the page.

* * *

_Thursday 31 March, 2016_

The loud rumble of an engine; the garage door closing with a screech of metal on and metal and Kurt had been awake instantly, stumbling over to the window and peeking through the blinds just in time to see Blaine's car turning the corner at the end of the street, undoubtedly heading to the nearest open bar. Seeing him without a bottle of beer hanging limply from his hand had become a rare sight over the past few days. It was past midnight and not knowing who else to turn to, he had called Finn, who had made it to Westerville in under ninety minutes. Kurt had been waiting outside the Anderson family home when Finn had arrived, and after Kurt had climbed into the car, they had driven downtown in silence.

As they got out of the car, Kurt's head whipped around in every possible direction as he searched the streets for any sign of his boyfriend.

“What the hell was he thinking, just getting up in the middle of the night and taking off?”

“His dad just died, Finn, and the funeral is,” Kurt paused, looking at his watch, “in about twelve hours, how the fuck would you feel?”

Finn froze, and Kurt realized exactly what he'd just said. “I'm so sorry, Finn,” he said, resisting the almost overpowering urge to kick himself. “I wasn't thinking.”

“S'okay,” Finn said, hands digging into his pockets. “Let's just find him and bring him home, okay? We should split up.”

Kurt nodded, feeling even worse than he had been, before taking off in the opposite direction to Finn, eyes passing over stores that were long since closed but lingering upon bars and twenty-four hour drugstores until he was positive he'd scoured every last inch.

The previous week, Blaine's father had been out to lunch with some prospective clients when he had suddenly and without warning collapsed—he had suffered a heart attack, and upon arrival at Richard M Ross Heart Hospital, was immediately put on life support. Kurt and Blaine had caught the next flight into Columbus, college be damned, and had made it to the hospital with an hour to spare. Not wanting to intrude, Kurt had paced the waiting room until Blaine had come to him with hollow eyes, asking silently to be held. Kurt cried a little, then—mostly for Blaine as he knew that the late William Anderson had never exactly approved of their relationship. After a few minutes Blaine had stood, brushing himself off and clearing his throat. “There's a lot to do,” he said, his voice sounding so flat and devoid of emotion that it had scared Kurt a little.

“Baby, are you—don't you want to talk about this?” he asked, taken aback, raising a hand to cup Blaine's jaw.

Blaine took his hand and gently lowered it back to his side, breaking contact before simply repeating, “there's a lot to do.”

The rest of the week had passed by in a blur of funeral arrangements, of family friends and relatives visiting to express their sympathies, of a Blaine who was cold and distancing himself from anything that came near. Everything about him screamed bereavement, and it was all Kurt could do not to break down every time his eyes met those of his boyfriend; orbs usually so full of warmth and love and life, now completely empty. The only time Blaine even showed any outward sign of emotion was at night. He tossed and turned all throughout the night, dozing fitfully for an hour at a time before waking again and simply lying on his back, staring into the darkness.

While Blaine was dealing with the almost endless stream of visitors and well-wishers, Kurt had, at a loss for anything else to do, busied himself with helping Mrs Anderson; dealing with the funeral directors when she had been too overcome with grief and calling as many numbers as she gave him to try and track down Blaine's older brother Cooper, who was traveling abroad. The arrangements were coming together slowly but surely, yet it was something that Kurt would never take pride in.

By Tuesday morning he had managed to reach Cooper, somewhere deep in the bowels of Italy, and felt his own voice faltering and heart breaking as he had to deliver the news of his father's death. Cooper had barely managed to hold himself together as he told Kurt he would be on the next flight home—he arrived late Wednesday evening, greeting Kurt with as warm a hug as he could muster and thanking him profusely for everything he had done. Mrs Anderson had taken one look at her eldest son and fallen to the floor, sobbing harder than Kurt had yet witnessed, and as Cooper crumpled to her side and clung to her like a boy of six, he quietly excused himself from the room.

For long periods of the day, Blaine had taken to sitting beneath the cherry tree in the back yard, guitar propped next to him as he stared blankly into the middle-distance. Kurt would watch him from the kitchen as he washed dishes, cooked meals, or worked on that stubborn spot of limescale on the drainer. He'd lost count of the number of meals he'd taken out to him that had gone untouched. Blaine's eyes wouldn't meet his when he draped blankets around his shoulders to keep him warm. Kurt would sit with him for those long stretches of early evening until the setting sun streaked the sky with colors that seemed somehow muted; Blaine was completely silent. It was as if Blaine had died, too, leaving only a vacant and brittle shell of the man he loved.

Wednesday evening, Blaine had gripped his mother's hand tightly for a brief moment before climbing the stairs to his old bedroom. Kurt had followed silently, undressing quickly and climbing into bed beside him with the least amount of disturbance possible. Blaine was lying on his side facing Kurt, pain etched across his features as Kurt tentatively took his hand.

“Sleep,” he whispered, and Blaine's eyes had closed as if he were the ship and Kurt the commander.

Kurt felt guilty for a moment at how easily he was falling into sleep's cold, waiting embrace. The next thing he knew, Blaine was gone.

His phone buzzed loudly in his hand. “Finn? Have you found him?”

“Yeah. Jimmy V's on South State Street,” came the reply. “Kurt, you need get here right now. He's... not good.”

“I'm coming.”

Five minutes later, Kurt rushed into the darkened bar, eyes frantically searching the room. He was halfway through dialing Finn's number again when he caught sight of him at the far end of the bar, half-standing, half-sitting next to Blaine, who was sinking shots like it was going out of fashion.

“Again.”

“Dude, slow down,” Finn attempted as Kurt reached them.

“Again,” Blaine rasped, slapping down a ten on the bar. It was the first time that Kurt had heard his voice in days, and it tore from his throat like it had been dragged along a dirt track.

The bartender poured out another shot of Jim Beam before replacing the bottle on the shelf. Blaine downed it swiftly with a grimace.

“I'll go bring the car around,” Finn muttered, and Kurt shot him a grateful look.

“All right, that's your last,” Kurt said firmly, taking Blaine by the arm and dragging him from the bar. Ignoring protests that he was fine, Kurt guided him outside to sit on the curb. Blaine held his head in his hands, breathing shakily.

“Nothing hurts in there,” he said, finally, voice barely audible.

Before Kurt could respond, Finn had pulled up alongside them and was helping Kurt maneuver Blaine into the driver's side backseat. His body was almost limp, and Kurt fought back the lump that had formed in his throat.

“Please don't make me go back there,” Blaine whispered as Kurt leaned over him to fasten his seat belt. “I can't, not with... Not with everything.”

Kurt said nothing, setting his jaw and willing himself not to cry. He had never seen Blaine like this before, and he was terrified that he was losing him to the dark and roiling storm inside his head.

“Hey,” Finn said as Kurt closed the door. “I don't want you to take this the wrong way or anything, but you look terrible. Do you need to come home tonight?”

Kurt took a deep, steadying breath, and shook his head. “No. Blaine needs me, this is where I need to be.”

Finn nodded in understanding. “Let's get him home, then.”

By the time they returned to the house, Blaine had lapsed back into silence. Bidding Finn a short goodbye—he, along with Kurt's dad and Carole, would be in attendance at the funeral the next day—he took Blaine upstairs, helped him get changed into his pajamas and settled him in bed. As he slid between the sheets, Blaine curled into him. Kurt held him tightly, and it was the first night of undisturbed sleep he could remember since before they had come back to Westerville.

* * *

Thursday dawned bright and terrible, and Blaine's head was pounding. It took him a moment before he remembered where he was and why, and then the air was knocked out of him as it all came rushing back. He sank back into the mattress, wishing he could be swallowed up until this horrible, horrible day was over. The empty space in the bed next to him was still slightly warm and smelt of Kurt, his only light in the dark and shuttered world to which he had retreated since he had witnessed that thin lifeline becoming entirely flat. That continuous, earth-shattering tone rang constantly in his ears. He felt beyond the reach of comforting words or open arms. His body moved without any conscious thought; right, left, right, left.

“Morning.”

Blaine glanced up at Kurt, who was standing in the open doorway, leaning on the frame. He was already dressed, wearing a simple black suit with a soft gray tie. His eyes slid to the left to rest on the garment bag hanging on the closet door, and he swallowed hard.

“It's almost ten-thirty,” Kurt said, crossing the room to perch on the edge of the bed. He leaned over, pressing a light kiss to Blaine's temple. “It's time.”

Blaine stood slowly, stretching as if limbering up to run the gauntlet. Eyes downcast, he ran his fingers across the thick plastic of the garment bag and unzipped it.

“Is it okay?” Kurt asked as he began turning the bed down, hoping that it would deter Blaine from wanting to get back in.

Blaine nodded. “You... The tie.”

Kurt straightened, suddenly unsure. He had been a mess of worry when he'd packed their suitcase, feeling nauseous as he made the decision to plan for every eventuality while Blaine rushed around in the background, making phone calls as he tried to gather his wits. “I brought a black one, too; I just thought that... since it was a gift from your father...”

“No, it's—it's perfect. You keep telling me that sage is my color,” Blaine said, running the tie through his fingers. Kurt approached him slowly, tentatively taking hold of his arms and kissing his bare shoulder.

Once Blaine was ready, he held tightly onto Kurt's hand as they descended the stairs into the oppressive silence of the lobby, where Cooper was waiting with Mrs. Anderson.

“Oh, Blaine,” she said, wrapping her arms around him. It took a few moments before he returned the hug. Stepping away, she adjusted his tie slightly and smoothed it down with a tearful smile, turning to Kurt. “I can't thank you enough for everything you've done for us.”

Kurt cleared his throat. “You don't need to— We're almost like family,” he said quietly, hoping it wasn't the wrong thing to say.

Fiona nodded, almost to herself. “Yes, that we are. And William was certainly beginning to think so,” she finished, before walking quickly out into the hall, motioning for the boys to follow. Blaine and Kurt exchanged a brief glance somewhere between surprise and disbelief, before joining hands and stepping out into the cool March air.

* * *

All things considered, Blaine mused, the service was very respectful; befitting the quiet dignity with which his father had always held himself. Kurt had made most of the arrangements, he knew, and he felt the fire of his love burning a little brighter beneath the veil of his grief. Kurt was by his side for the entirety of the service and its aftermath, even after only very briefly greeting his own family at the heavy oak doors to the church. Blaine didn't once let go of his hand; Kurt was his only anchor to the earth.

He didn't cry. His mother did. Cooper did, a little, when giving his speech. Even Kurt did, though Blaine could tell he was trying his best to hide it. He wanted to cry— _needed_ to—but it was like something inside of him was being held far away, only numbness left behind. He drifted through the service and the journey home for the wake.

Somehow, the grandfather clock was already chiming three times, and Blaine was overcome by a wave of nausea. His father's lawyer, Jeremy Meyers, stood solemnly with his briefcase in hand. He offered his arm to Fiona, who accepted it gratefully, her grief bearing down on her like a physical weight. Cooper followed slowly, and with one last look at Kurt, Blaine made his way out of the room and upstairs to the library, taking a seat in front of the mahogany desk at which his father had often worked into the early hours of the morning. Cooper briefly laid a hand on his shoulder.

“As you are all aware,” Jeremy began, after producing a manila folder from his briefcase, “William was a shrewd and careful man. We are here to read his last will and testament, dated March first, two-thousand and sixteen.”

Blaine heard his mother gasp from behind him at the proximity of the date.

“Now, there are separate letters to each of you, which William asked that you read privately, after we have concluded,” Jeremy continued, leaning across the desk and handing each remaining member of the Anderson family a cream-colored envelope. “Shall we begin?”

Cooper and Blaine nodded in the absence of their stunned mother's assent.

_“I, William Michael Anderson, residing in Westerville, Ohio, being of sound mind do hereby declare this document to be my last will and testament, and revoke all previous wills and codicils. I direct that the disposition of my remains be as follows...”_

Blaine screwed his eyes shut; he couldn't listen to any more, not wanting to spend a second longer than necessary thinking about the word 'remains' and how it in no way related to his father. Nothing remained except the gnawing, churning ache deep in his gut. If he was entirely honest with himself, he had no idea how to feel about—and, therefore, go about dealing with—his father's passing. His family never had been one for really addressing the core of the issue, choosing only to scrub away the surface blemishes. Though it was true that his father had come a long way in his acceptance of Blaine, they had still had so far to go. Blaine still had so much to prove, and now he would never get that chance.

He turned his head to look out of the window, and saw Kurt laying out a blanket underneath the cherry tree before sitting down and leaning back against the trunk. The back yard was empty; it was too cold and too late in the day to spend time anywhere other than inside, yet there he was. For a while, Blaine simply watched him sit, arms wrapped around himself against the chill. He wondered for a moment why Kurt wasn't spending time with his family, but realized that it had been a big day for him, too. He had been the one making sure things went without a hitch; organizing the caterers, staff, cars and flowers. He must have been exhausted, and at that moment, sure enough, Kurt turned his head into his shoulder as he tried and failed to stifle a yawn. Blaine felt his lips curve ever so slightly upward—the first time since before the phone call that had set this whole awful week into motion.

 _“And finally to my younger son, Blaine,”_ Jeremy's voice was saying, and Blaine turned back towards him, _“I leave a living allowance including tuition fees, as outlined in Section Four-A, to be used to support himself and his partner, Mr. Kurt Hummel, until October eighteenth, twenty-eighteen, at which time half of my estate—excluding all other bequests contained herein—will pass to him.”_

Blaine's mind was reeling, his eyes wide. He gripped the chair's armrests with white-knuckled hands, replaying the words over and over in his mind, none of it making sense. Once more he looked out of the window, and this time found Kurt looking right back at him. After a long moment, Kurt signed 'I love you”—one of the many languages in which they had learned to say the words back in high school.

“That about wraps things up,” Jeremy was saying, gazing at them with sympathy. Fiona stood, thanking him and quickly making her excuses as she left the room, enveloped clutched tightly in her hand. Cooper soon followed, squeezing Blaine's arm as he rose, and Jeremy settled the documents back inside his briefcase as he motioned to leave.

“Thank you very much, Mr Meyers,” Blaine said, standing quickly and holding out his hand. The lawyer shook it firmly, with a nod.

“I'm so sorry for your loss. William was a dear friend,” he said, his voice betraying his true feelings for the first time. “You are so very much like him.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Though sometimes, I think of it as that he was so very much like you. You may not know it, Blaine, but you taught him a lot about the world and the way that it should work.”

Blaine fiddled with the envelope in his hands. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.”

Jeremy nodded once more, before departing the room and closing the door behind him.

Letting out a heavy sigh, Blaine walked around to the other side of the desk, fingertips trailing over the calendar placed squarely in the center. He sat down, remembering himself at the age of seven wondering why the chair was so big if it was made for people. _Once there were giants._ Using his father's letter opener, he gently eased out the pages inside the envelope and began to read, his hands shaking.

* * *

 _It's peaceful here,_ thought Kurt, gazing upwards through the sun-dappled cherry blossoms which had yet to begin falling. They were holding on, despite the chill breeze that made him shiver every now and then. He felt exhausted, and whenever he stopped to stifle a yawn or blink away the grit from his eyes, he felt that familiar stab of guilt. He couldn't help admitting, however, that it was nice to be taking a break away from all of the sad relatives with their prying eyes and questioning glances—especially here, under the tree that clearly meant so much to his boyfriend.

“Kurt?”

The broken-sounding voice startled him, and he looked up to see Blaine standing over him, shaking like a leaf with tears in his eyes. He was clutching a piece of paper in his hands.

“How was it?” Kurt asked softly as Blaine sat down next to him.

“Better than I could have hoped for,” Blaine said.

“How... How much better?” Kurt asked cautiously, not wanting to be insensitive but also desperate to know. Blaine smiled, but it met his eyes only for a fleeting moment.

“There'll be enough for us to live on. Comfortably. Comfortably even if we were living on the Upper West Side. And there's more—a lot more—in trust until I turn twenty-four,” he answered, taking a deep and shuddering breath. “Dad wrote a new will at the start of this month. Coop and I are each getting half the company.”

Kurt was stunned silent. The amount of times Blaine had bitterly joked about being written out of his father's will...

“He wrote me a letter,” Blaine continued. “Kurt, he—he was... He was okay with us. He was proud of me.”

Kurt turned to kneel in front of him, placing his hands on Blaine's knees and squeezing gently. “You can let it out, if you need to,” he said in a near-whisper, and that was all it took. Blaine folded in on himself; collapsing, imploding, his body racked with sobs.

“He s-said that I should follow my d-dreams; that he wants me to be a silent partner in the company unless I want to be involved,” Blaine choked out. Kurt pulled him close, heart breaking at how Blaine clung on to him. He'd known this would come sooner or later. Blaine was the king of “everything's fine”. He could do funny, romantic, happy, serious... But it wasn't in his nature to do sad in front of anyone else. “He said that I'd taught him the value of going after your dreams and he hoped that I'd do the same. He apologized for the pain he'd caused us and... And he said that he l-loves me no matter what. And that I should never... Never forget.”

Kurt fiercely fought back his own tears as he held his boyfriend, broken and bleeding, in his arms. “Just let it out,” he whispered, guiding them back to lie against the tree. As Blaine cried harder, Kurt began to sing quietly, soothingly rubbing his back and letting himself lose track of time completely.

Some time later, when Blaine had regained some control over himself and they sat in silence, he finally spoke.

“I'm so sorry for the way I've been handling things. Or not handling things,” he said, shifting slightly in Kurt's arms.

“I understand,” Kurt replied, turning his face into Blaine's hair and inhaling deeply.

“I've been so _weak_.”

“Hey. Blaine, look at me,” Kurt said, and Blaine's eyes finally met his own. “You are _not_ weak. You're my hero. You have been ever since you took that slushie for me in senior year, and you still are.”

Blaine pressed himself closer into Kurt's side, whispering a thank-you into his chest.

Hesitantly, Kurt asked the question that had been playing on his mind since Blaine had emerged from the house and told him about the letter. “What was the thing that your father wanted you to never forget?”

Blaine paused, smiling a little. “It's... It's this quote. He used to say it all the time when I was younger and he still wanted me to grow up to be just like him. It doesn't even make sense, really, when you think about it. Apart from the sun, the closest star is like, four light years away. Anyway. I'd be out here climbing this tree, and he'd come out and just stand there watching me for a while. I never told you, but he planted this tree with my grandpa when he was four years old. 'Blaine', he'd say, and I'd climb down and he'd be sitting right where we are. He'd say, 'shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you'll land among the stars. Never forget that.'”

Abruptly, Blaine sat up, having caught something out of the corner of his eye. Then another, followed by another.

“Blaine, what—“ Kurt began, and then he saw it. Blaine took his hand, an almost serene smile lighting up his every feature.

The cherry blossoms were finally beginning to fall.

* * *

Two weeks later, when they were home in New York and settling back into their routine, a stiff cardboard envelope arrived in the mail. The return address was that of Blaine's house in Westerville.

Blaine opened the envelope after dinner that evening and, along with a short note from his mother expressing her hope that they were well, there was a photograph. His mother explained that she and her friend Marcia had gone into the kitchen for some quiet away from the rest of the mourners, and had seen Kurt and Blaine underneath the tree, catching the falling cherry blossoms. In the photograph, they were sitting cross-legged, knees touching as they smiled at one another with their hands full of petals.

Blaine ran his fingers across the photograph as Kurt pulled him close. _I'll never forget, Dad. I promise._


	9. When the Sun Shines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** This chapter PG-13  
>  **Spoilers:** None.  
>  **Disclaimer:** I paint the pictures; I just borrow the names.  
>  **Author's Note:** The amount of research I had to do for this chapter is actually ridic. WHAT IS MY LIFE. I'll tell you what it is; checking out the Port Canaveral website at three a.m. just to make sure I've got one minute detail correct that no one else cares about (in case you were wondering, it's which cruise terminal the Disney ships sail from). If you have any questions about the story that you'd like to ask, or just to squee about Klaine in general, or anything at all, head on over to my [Tumblr](http://borogroves.tumblr.com). I'm also still taking prompts for things you'd like to see. Thank you :)

**Chapter Nine - When the Sun Shines**   
_Saturday 27 August, 2044_

For some time afterward, The Book sat open at that same photograph as Blaine told stories from his childhood, all of which Kurt had heard before but enjoyed nonetheless. He didn't realize just how long they had been sitting out on the porch—over an hour—until his stomach growled.

“How long did they say they'd be?” Kurt asked, taking a small sip of his wine and resting the base of the glass on his shoulder.

“Should be any time now. I ordered while you were in the bathroom after the New Years' picture,” Blaine said, leaning back in his seat and stretching out his legs. “I got you the Moo Goo Gai Pan with white rice.”

Absently walking his fingers up and down the back of Blaine's hand, Kurt smiled at how his husband had always made a point of memorizing his orders, ever since he'd called attention to it at The Lima Bean so many years earlier. His stomach gave another loud rumble and, as if on cue, the gate buzzer rang inside the house. Blaine rose from his seat, grabbing his wallet and jogging down the path. Kurt went inside to grab some plates and a pillow for Blaine's back—he'd been having some trouble recently, but at Kurt's insistence had seen a chiropractor and was almost back to his old self. Kurt offered up a prayer of thanks to whatever was or wasn't there; he'd been one more failed love-making attempt away from making the damn appointment himself.

Settling himself outside again, Kurt couldn't help but smile as Blaine jogged back up the steps of the porch. He was still like a fountain of energy, even at forty-nine years old. Age hadn't slowed him down at all; he was still Hurricane Blaine, as Kurt had affectionately nicknamed him the year that there actually had been a Hurricane Blaine. _And,_ Kurt mused as his eyes raked over him appreciatively, _he's still sexy as all get-out._

“What are you thinking about?” Blaine asked, handing him a set of chopsticks.

“Nothing, really,” Kurt answered, removing two cartons from the brown paper bag and inhaling the mouth-watering smell of sweet and sour sauce. “Just about how you still make me feel like a teenager, sometimes.”

“Good to know I've still got it,” Blaine replied, with a wink and a quirk of his eyebrows, hungrily digging into his chow mein. Kurt speared a piece of chicken and raised it to his mouth before flipping the page. “I thought we were taking a break.”

“I figured maybe we could just look at these next few,” Kurt answered, hand covering his mouth as he chewed thoughtfully. “We've been talking about the rest, but the next few pages... They all happened at the same time. It felt like minutes between each one. I wouldn't know where to begin or where to finish.”

Blaine smiled at him affectionately. “Me neither,” he said, almost inhaling another mouthful of noodles. “It was a good time, though. Wasn't it?”

“The best,” Kurt answered fondly. “It was the beginning of the rest of our lives.”

* * *

_Wednesday 18 May, 2016_

Commencement. Yankee Stadium. Kurt could hardly believe they were finally, finally here. And although that particular shade of purple clashed with his skin tone and the cut made him feel like a sack of potatoes, it was the only moment in his entire life he couldn't bring himself to care about such a heinous crime against fashion. Because today, his boyfriend—the person he was most proud of in the whole world—was giving the undergraduate commencement address.

Kurt's phone vibrated in his pocket.

 **Blaine:** _Oh god, Kurt, it sucks. It sucks so bad._

 **Kurt:** _I've heard you run it a hundred times already and it gets me every time. It's beautiful, Blaine – COURAGE._

He pictured Blaine standing backstage, shaking in his robes, his cap settled at an angle on his head with the tassel swaying in his right peripheral. He would be bouncing on the balls of his feet; breathing in through the nose and out through the mouth; thumbing along the edge of his prompt cards until he got a paper cut.

Kurt had thoroughly enjoyed the ceremony so far. It was conducted like the opening ceremony of the Olympics, and the commencement address was going to be given by none other than the legend that was Whoopi Goldberg, an NYU alumnus. He couldn't keep the grin from his face whenever he turned around in his seat to see his father, Carole and Finn (who had graduated from Ohio State the week earlier) sitting with Fiona and Cooper. She looked drawn into herself, but brighter while she talked with Carole, who was probably telling her the story of how Kurt had played matchmaker back in high school. Finn was seated next to Cooper, sporting a large purple foam finger, and from the way he kept wildly gesticulating, Kurt thought they were probably discussing sports of some kind.

And then there was Burt; sitting between the two pairs, and beaming back at him whenever he turned around.

 _You won,_ he mouthed, and it was all Kurt could do to tear his eyes away and back to the stage, where Blaine was being announced.

As the undergraduate speaker, Blaine was first. Kurt saw this as a positive sign; like Rachel had said at the New Directions' very first Sectionals competition, going first meant everyone else had to measure up. He slowly walked onto the stage, looking for the first time in his life like he didn't know he was meant to be there. Blaine stepped up onto the podium, and cleared his throat.

There was a long, pregnant pause. The hush that had settled over the crowd was broken by the occasional ripple, and the longer it dragged on, the more restless they grew. Kurt sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees with worry creasing his brow. Blaine's terrified face stretched countless feet on the huge screens dotted around the stadium, and Kurt closed his eyes.

_Courage, Blaine. Just like you told me. Courage._

“You're waiting for a train,” Blaine began, and Kurt's relief engulfed him. “A train that will take you far away. You know where you hope this train will take you, but you can't be sure. Yet it doesn't matter. Why? Because we'll be together.

“My name is Blaine Anderson, and as of today, I am no longer a student of Steinhardt School of Culture, Education and Human Development. Today, I'm graduating with a degree in Music Technology. I would like to take a moment to thank my incredible professors, my wonderful boyfriend, and our two amazing families, without whom I would not be standing here today.”

Blaine took a deep breath, and Kurt could tell he was beginning to feel more confident. The stage was his home, and he was remembering that.

“Martin Luther King,” he continued, voice growing stronger, “changed the world with four words. 'I have a dream'. Walt Disney once said, 'all our dreams come true, if we have the courage to pursue them'. The Oscar-winning movie Inception taught us that, most importantly of all, we can be the architect of our own dreams.

“Every single person who is graduating today came to NYU with dreams. Dreams of a better life, of what they want to be, of where they want to end up. Dreams of professions, and careers, and loves, and lives. I was asked to come here today and give an inspirational speech, so what I'm going to do is tell you one simple thing. I'm going to tell you to never give up. Never let go of your dreams, even if you find that you grow out of them and have to find new ones. Never stop dreaming; never stop reaching. Just because we're graduating, just because this era of our lives is ending, doesn't mean that it should take our dreams along with it.

“I'm going to ask you all to take a look at where you are, now. Where you were three, five, even ten years ago. How your dreams have changed. Ten years ago I was watching videos of Sting on YouTube and dreaming of singing on stage just like him. Five years ago, I was meeting the love of my life and dreaming of white picket fences. Three years ago, I was walking into the studio for the first time and knowing that I was finally exactly where I was supposed to be in my life. People change, dreams change and the one constant is that right now, we have nothing to lose, except those dreams.

“Every single one of you is as complex and beautiful as all the stars in the universe. Every single one of us is destined to go there. So go after your dreams, no matter how absurd. Knock on doors until your knuckles bleed. Write letters until you can't see because your eyes water from yawning too much. Make calls until you want to never again hear a ringing telephone. Sing like no one's listening, dance like no one's watching, walk like no one's holding you back. Be honest with yourself, be kind to yourself and most importantly, listen to yourself. Trust yourself. And if you do all of that, maybe one day we'll all meet again.”

Blaine took a moment, cocked his head to the side and looked directly into the nearest camera. Kurt stills. “Beers on me,” he finished, and the stadium erupted.

* * *

_Tuesday 7 June, 2016_

The work of the last few days was finally complete. The wallpaper was stripped and each room was painted back to neutral colors. Kurt's chic wall hangings were packed away with Blaine's canvas prints and that ridiculous yet endearing scribble collage he'd made while drunk. The furniture was in the moving truck, which was currently en route to their new apartment on West 91st Street.

Their tiny, freezing, fifth-floor apartment was no longer home.

Kurt stood in the doorway of the empty bedroom with his arms crossed, staring at the space their bed had occupied. After a few minutes, he turned to leave and pulled the door closed behind him. Slowly, he paced throughout the apartment, retracing steps he had taken a thousand times. His fingers brushed along the uneven living room walls, the pock-marked counters in the kitchen, the wavering outline of the open front door. He felt like he was really _seeing_ the place for the first time. It was kind of a dump, but his lingering affection seemed, incredibly conveniently, to have forgotten about that.

“Hey,” said Blaine, sounding exhausted as he re-entered the apartment. Kurt was facing away, and he felt strong arms wrap around him from behind, pulling him close.

“Hey,” Kurt sighed, rubbing Blaine's hands as they tightened around his waist. “It's real, isn't it?”

“Yeah, it is,” Blaine said, voice muffled against Kurt's shoulder.

“We don't live here anymore,” he whispered shakily. “I know how many times I said I hated this apartment and how much I complained about it, but...”

“But it was our first home together,” Blaine finished for him. Kurt nodded silently, before turning around and burying his face in the crook of Blaine's shoulder, fingers curling underneath the neck of his shirt. Blaine hugged him tighter for a few moments, then pulled back, thumbing away tears and pressing their foreheads together. “You almost ready?”

Kurt inhaled sharply and spun on his heel for one last look. “Not quite. We don't have to be out of here until five,” he said in a low voice, glancing sidelong at the kitchen island before raking his eyes up and down Blaine's body. “For old times' sake?”

In one smooth movement, Blaine closed the front door and picked Kurt up, hooking his legs around his waist. He sat Kurt down gently on the edge, kissing him slowly and deeply. His hand was moving down the front of Kurt's shirt in a meandering trail, and as his fingers disappeared beneath the hemline Kurt thought, _thank everything I hold sacred that the new place has an island just like this one. Except instead of Formica, it's granite. And the drawers don't stick. And there's a—SHUT UP, KURT._

* * *

_Thursday 21 June, 2016_

Kurt detested Florida. The humidity did unspeakable things to his hair, he was sweating from every last pore, and there seemed to be a legion of mosquitoes with a personal vendetta against him. Blaine, on the other hand. His hair looked perfect as always, any sign of perspiration was offset by his incredible tan, and he didn't have a single bite marring his skin. If he were anyone else, Kurt could easily have hated him.

They'd just returned from a seven-night cruise on the _Disney Fantasy_ , a trip Blaine had been saving for since his first year of NYU. To begin with, Kurt had thought the idea was impossibly twee, falling far below his personal level of sophistication. Of course he loved Disney movies and had a few favorite songs to sing in the shower, but a cruise?

The more time that passed, the more concentrated Blaine's unadulterated excitement became and the more pictures he attached to the refrigerator with smiley face magnets. By the beginning of their second year, the fridge practically had its own wallpaper. Eventually, the pictures caught Kurt's interest fully and he began to take in the comfortable-looking staterooms, the ornately designed and themed restaurants, the... _wait, is that a spa?_

Interest piqued, Kurt had finally caved and visited the website (under cover of darkness, of course). He was impressed, and felt a sudden rush of love for his boyfriend who was saving his every spare cent for something so cute, so fun, so romantic. Kurt had been the one to open the envelope containing the tickets, which had arrived addressed to them both, and was thankful that no one had witnessed the way he had bounced up and down on the spot.

Practically shaking with excitement, Blaine had taken his hand and pulled him aboard the ship, and Kurt was thankful for the air conditioning that swept away every last trace of the thick Florida heat.

The week had passed by in a blur of Disney movies in the theater (singing along with all of the kids like they were born-again five-year-olds), enjoying the cuisine at the plethora of on-board eateries, and wrapping up against the sun for the Port Adventures in Mexico and the Cayman Islands. Kurt had never felt so free; there was no pressure to spend all day without so much as a hair out of place, and he was constantly surrounded by music, memories of childhood, and unimpeded joy.

Blaine hadn't let a single moment of the week pass without humming or singing, and it was a common occurrence for Kurt to return to his side from the bathroom or a walk around the deck and find him surrounded by kids; more often than not dancing around and singing along as he gave impromptu renditions of songs from _The Little Mermaid_ or _Aladdin_. Once, Kurt had come back from the snack bar in time to see a little girl of about seven or eight bounding out of the Kids' Club room, arms flung out and pigtails flying. Blaine had swept her up in his arms and spun her around, before setting her back down and asking what songs she wanted to sing. Kurt leaned against the deck railing, grinning widely when Blaine hoisted the girl high to sit on his shoulders, and felt an unfamiliar pang. Of... longing? No, that wasn't right—he'd felt that often enough in the past.

It was, he realized, a pang of anticipation. Anticipation of the day when he and Blaine might start a family. At that moment, he was more sure than ever that Blaine would make an amazing father.

*

Their last night came around far too quickly for Blaine's liking, but nonetheless he was looking forward to it, and he smiled as he thought back over the past week. Kurt was so relaxed, more alive than Blaine had ever seen him.

“Now, are you absolutely sure you don't want to tell me what my surprise is?” Kurt asked mischievously, hopping up onto the counter in front of Blaine and fastening the top button of his crisp black shirt. Kurt was wearing a pale lavender dress shirt underneath a heather-gray vest with dark slacks, and as usual he looked effortlessly stunning.

Blaine had booked the Gusteau room at Remy, the Ratatouille-inspired adults only restaurant, and as he threaded a skinny, cream-colored tie underneath his collar, he smiled at the memory of once telling Kurt that he wasn't very good at romance. That young, bewildered and oblivious boy was a thing of the past; Blaine had learned from the best.

Blaine shook his head with a grin. Kurt knotted his tie for him, fingertips lingering just at the end. “Nope,” he answered simply, allowing himself to be pulled forward by the tie for a sweet, almost chaste kiss. “Okay. Maybe.”

“No, no, you can't! You'll ruin it!” Kurt exclaimed, and Blaine looked at him pointedly. Kurt dropped his hands, his face a picture of mock-defeat. “Why do you know me so well?”

“It's my job to,” Blaine answered simply, taking Kurt's hand as he jumped down from the counter. “Ready?”

* * *

_Monday 15 August, 2016_

**Kurt:** _Why aren't you home yet, what's taking you so long?_

 **Blaine:** _I'm almost there, I swear. Did they finally arrive?_

 **Kurt:** _Yes. Both of them. If you're not back in the next thirty seconds, I'm going to—_

The door swung open with a bang, and Kurt's head snapped up. From his vantage point against the back of the couch, he could see the wild look in his boyfriend's eyes. Blaine quickly dropped his bag to the floor, shrugged out of his coat and practically ran down the hallway to stand next to Kurt, who held two thin and unassuming white envelopes.

“Let's... let's be sitting down for this,” Blaine said quietly. Kurt nodded, letting himself be led around to the front of the couch and dropping heavily into his seat.

“How do you wanna do this?” Kurt asked, and after a moment's pause for thought, Blaine took the envelope addressed to Kurt.

“Let's open each other's letters,” he said, finally. “I can't open mine.”

Kurt nodded again, turning Blaine's envelope over in his hands. “On three.”

“One...”

“Two...”

“Three,” they said in unison, and tore into the letters, frantically unfolding contents and scanning text.

It was Kurt who looked up first, tears shining in his eyes. For once, Blaine was at a loss as to whether that was a good or a bad thing.

“Just tell me,” he whispered, bracing himself.

 _“Dear Mr Anderson,”_ Kurt read, _“we at Disney Cruise Line are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted for a position on our exciting team of Cruise Staff.”_

Blaine's entire being lit up, and Kurt grasped his hand tightly as he continued.

 _“Your initial six month contract will begin on February 1st 2017, and you are asked to report promptly to Cruise Terminal 8, Port Canaveral, at 8am to begin your training. You will require..._ Blaine, you did it,” Kurt exclaimed, gripping his hand ever tighter. “You did it.”

Blaine felt like his grin would split his face in two if he smiled any wider. “Okay, okay, before I get completely stupid-happy, you need to hear your letter,” he said breathlessly.

“Blaine, I don't care. Right now, this is your moment,” Kurt said, placing Blaine's letter on the coffee table and pulling him close. “I am so proud of you.”

They shared quick, smiling kisses. “Are you _sure_ this is okay?” Blaine asked. “I know we've talked it over a thousand times, but... It's still six months, Kurt.”

Kurt took a deep breath, and placed his hand over his chest. “Blaine, I know in my heart that we will survive this. It's going to ache, but it's an ache that we know well. You deserve this, and _here_ ,” he said, picking up the letter again for emphasis, “is someone telling you the exact same thing.”

“But the timing... I'm going to miss Valentine's day. Not to mention your birthday.” Blaine dropped his head into his hands, second-guessing himself for the umpteenth time.

“I know, but...” Kurt trailed off. “You do know how many of those we're going to have together, right?”

Blaine met his eyes, chin propped in his hand with his elbow on his knee.

“I'm counting on you being around for a long time, Blaine Warbler,” Kurt continued, taking his hand. Blaine smiled at the old nickname; Kurt seldom used it anymore. “This is much more important.”

“Thank you,” Blaine whispered, capturing Kurt's mouth in a kiss. “I love you so much.”

“I love you, too.”

Blaine stole a self-indulgent moment to bask in his achievement, before taking up Kurt's letter and looking him straight in the eye.

 _“Dear Mr. Hummel,”_ he read, _“we are writing to you to thank you for your interest in the position of Personal Assistant.”_

Kurt's shoulders sagged visibly, eyes never leaving Blaine's. “Well, there's a rejection if ever I heard one,” he said, miserably. Blaine simply shook his head, still smiling.

_“We are delighted to inform you that you have been successful.”_

Kurt's eyes went wide. He swallowed hard, and was silent. That couldn't be right. Too many good things had already come to pass this summer. Blaine was just telling him what he wanted to hear, softening the blow of a failure in light of his own achievement. It wasn't until Blaine was pushing the letter under his nose and he was seeing the words for himself that he dared even to hope.

_We are delighted to inform you that you have been successful._

“I...” Kurt trailed off hoarsely, licking his lips. “I got the job?”

“Yeah, baby. You got the job,” Blaine whispered, cupping Kurt's chin and crushing their lips together in a kiss full of pride and love.

Kurt breathed harshly around the lump in his throat when Blaine pulled away.

“Kurt Hummel, P.A. to Stephanie Beaumont,” Blaine murmured, and Kurt let out a sound that was somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “Editor-in-Chief of _Vogue_ magazine.”

“We're really on our way,” Kurt said. “Aren't we?”

Blaine wrapped his arms around Kurt's shoulders and breathed him in. _“Never forget.”_


	10. Somewhere a Bell is Ringing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** This chapter PG-13  
>  **Spoilers:** None.  
>  **Disclaimer:** I paint the pictures; I just borrow the names.  
>  **Author's Note:** Thank you all for continuing to read! If you have any questions about the story that you'd like to ask, or just to squee about Klaine in general, or anything at all, head on over to my [Tumblr](http://borogroves.tumblr.com). I've started posting my own little scrapbook, of sorts, over there--just click [here](http://borogroves.tumblr.com/tagged/snapshots-scrapbook) for my Snapshots Scrapbook tag. I'm also still taking prompts for things you'd like to see. Thank you :)

**Chapter Ten - Somewhere a Bell is Ringing**   
_Saturday 27 August, 2044_

“That was an incredible summer,” Blaine mused, almost lost in memories of the sun and the ocean and the magic. He took in the picture of himself giving the speech that, to this day, still got referenced in the occasional interview. He set his empty plate aside, lingering on the sad yet sated look in Kurt's eyes in the very last picture of him in their very first apartment. Kurt smoothed down a crease in the ticket for the cruise that had taken them to Mexico, the warm afternoon sun lighting up their faces as they stood together in the shimmering heat of Cozumel, before brushing reverently across the faded text of the yellowing letters that had changed their lives forever.

“The best,” Kurt agreed. “Of course, I could have lived without the mosquito mafia dogging my every step...”

“You're never gonna let that one go, are you?”

“...Nope.”

“Something I've always wondered,” Blaine began after they turned to the next page. The picture was from Christmas 2016 at the Hummel-Hudson household. Kurt almost visibly shuddered at the hideous holiday sweaters that Carole had forced them into. He quirked his eyebrows a little at Blaine, prompting him to continue. “Why wouldn't you kiss me that night?”

Kurt didn't say anything for a moment. “I, um... I just couldn't. Let's just... Let's just say that it was because of the cigars. I could still smell them on you even after you showered.”

“I didn't even smoke!” Blaine exclaimed, though he was laughing. Kurt tried not to show his relief at the fact that sometimes, his husband could still be incredibly oblivious. But there were some things, some moments that he just didn't have the heart to ruin. “And hey, you didn't seem to care about the way I smelled after our bachelor par—“

“I was _high_ , Blaine. You know better than to try and hold me accountable for any of the things that happened that night,” Kurt said haughtily.

“ _Blame it on the goose, got you feeling loose_ ,” Blaine crooned into his ear.

“The goose wasn't the half of it, as you're well aware,” Kurt huffed, squirming as Blaine's hands found the ticklish spot between his ribs. “And anyway, the whole thing was your fault for being such an enabler in the first place.”

“Wait, wait. Just to make sure I'm understanding, here. You're saying that while I was passed out on the bathroom floor and you were sneaking out to... Well, do what you did... that it was my fault,” Blaine incredulously stated, rather than asked.

“Yes,” Kurt said, placing a finger across Blaine's mouth as his lips parted to protest. “But let's not go getting ahead of ourselves.”

* * *

_Sunday 25 December, 2016_

As Kurt stood at the sink with Carole, drying the dishes she passed to him and examining his reflection in the dark mirror of the kitchen window, it occurred to him that he had not seen or heard Blaine in quite some time. He listened intently for a second, inclining his head towards the living room, but all he could hear were the low murmurings of Finn and Burt's voices over the TV. There was nothing of the deep and soothing cadence of the voice he'd come to semantically associate with the smell of coffee in the morning; of old Katy Perry songs; of waking up enveloped in a warm embrace.

“Did Blaine go somewhere?” he asked Carole, trying to keep the creeping edge of tension away from his words.

“Yeah, honey, he went for a walk. He didn't tell you?”

Kurt shook his head, excusing himself into the hall and pulling his phone from his pocket as he perched on the stairs.

_Where'd you go? K x_

_Feel like keeping me company? B xx_

_Sure. K x_

_Two rights, then a left, then two more rights, and carry on. You'll know where to find me when you get here. Wrap up warm. I love you. B xx_

Kurt didn't even need to map out the journey in his mind's eye—he'd traveled that route often enough to know where those directions led. Blaine knew that, and Kurt knew that he knew—he probably just hadn't wanted to come right out and say that he was at the cemetery.

“Blaine went to see Mom,” he told Carole, almost apologetically, after re-entering the kitchen. She simply looked around at him with a sad smile, her hands still immersed.

“I wondered if he might,” she said, quietly, and Kurt bit his tongue to keep from asking why. “I'm almost done here, if you wanted to go join him.”

“Would you mind if I did?”

“No, honey, not at all. Just take your Dad's truck, he put the snow tires on it a couple weeks ago. You know how he worries,” she said, fondly. Kurt leaned over and kissed her on the cheek before making his way through the living room to retrieve the keys and tell his father where he was headed.

As he drove, Kurt listened to the radio, smiling a little when the DJ advised that anyone crazy enough to leave the house should pay special attention to the next song: _Baby, It's Cold Outside_.

The night before had been the last of a three-night stay at Blaine's house. Christmas, Blaine had told him, had never exactly been a grand affair at the Anderson household in the past, and this year had had the potential to be positively solemn in his father's absence. But somehow, between a reprise of their original flirty duet, and Blaine and Cooper's seemingly endless drama whilst duking it out on the Monopoly board, it wasn't unbearable. When they had finally retired to bed, they'd made love almost silently, eyes locked in a way that made Kurt's heart beat erratically. Deep moans muffled with kisses and hands over mouths, and it was like they were seventeen again, discovering everything for the first time.

Kurt flicked his eyes to his wrist for just a second, still a little unable to get over his gift from Fiona (not Mrs. Anderson, as she repeatedly insisted) and how much he loved it. She had bought them both watches, almost a 'His and His' kind of thing, the idea of which Kurt had always outwardly detested but secretly kind of loved. She'd chosen well; his was black, simple and understated, yet stylish and somehow went with everything when he took a moment to mentally inventory his closet.

He pulled into the parking lot as the hands on his watch ticked past four-thirty p.m., and he knew there wouldn't be much time. He'd memorized the visiting hours many years ago, when he would visit his mother every Sunday, and they hadn't changed. As Kurt got out of the truck, he made his way inside to the chapel like he always did, taking with him the candle he'd brought from his room. It was scented; the closest thing he'd ever been able to find. Sometimes—on those particularly difficult days when all he wanted was to be held in loving, maternal arms—he would still lie down on the floor with an arm thrown across his eyes, in front of the dresser that now lived in his and Blaine's apartment, all the drawers pulled out and just _breathe_.

He took a taper, setting his candle down on the shrine, and lit the wick. Kurt had never been religious at all, but something about the candles always seemed symbolic; it was comforting that somewhere, a light was burning for Elizabeth Hummel.

He paused for a moment afterward, before following the footsteps of many years long past along the path to his mother's headstone. The grounds were covered in snow, and Kurt had always loved the way that snow seemed to light up the world from the ground itself. Blaine was sitting cross-legged with four battery-operated perpetual candles in front of him, and he'd scattered lilacs around the headstone. The scene made Kurt's heart ache, and he bent forward to loop his arms around Blaine's neck from behind.

“Thank you,” he whispered, lowering himself onto the soft blanket that Blaine had spread out across the snow.

“I used to come here a lot, when you were in your first year at NYU,” he said, threading his fingers through Kurt's.

“You did?”

Blaine nodded. “I had a standing invitation to Friday Night Dinner,” he continued, and Kurt could almost hear him capitalizing the words. “Afterward, on my way home, I would always stop here and talk to your mom, telling her all about you and how you were doing. It kind of... It made me feel closer to you, in a way, like I could do this thing for you while you were so far away. I didn't... I don't know, I guess I didn't want her to be lonely with you gone.”

Kurt couldn't help the tears blazing trails down his face, the skin underneath them tight as they froze in the cold afternoon air. He leaned forward, brushing his fingers against the letters of his mother's name.

“Too much?” Blaine asked quietly, his eyes downcast as he self-consciously rubbed at the back of his neck. Kurt brought a hand up underneath Blaine's chin, gently tilted his face level and placed a soft kiss to his lips.

“Always,” Kurt confessed. “But I wouldn't change it.”

* * *

At eight p.m., after they'd all eaten their fill of Carole's delicious pecan pie (and then some, in Finn's case) and the table was cleared, Kurt and Blaine were left alone in the dining room. Kurt stretched his arms up over his head and leaned back in his seat, feeling Blaine's eyes on him.

“What?” he asked softly.

“I was just thinking about how proud of you I am. Kurt Hummel's had another pretty good year,” he said, and Kurt smiled.

Blaine felt lucky on Kurt's behalf that, while his job was demanding and the hours sometimes got slightly on the long side for his own liking, his boss was actually a sweetheart. He'd seen _The Devil Wears Prada_ more times than he really liked to admit, and had been terrified until Kurt came home at the end of his first day, his smile preceding him. He opened his mouth to say more, but was cut off by Burt re-entering the kitchen, holding two pre-cut cigars in his hand.

Kurt rolled his eyes. “Really, Dad? Still?”

“It's tradition,” Burt said, simply, and held one out to Blaine. He looked sidelong at Kurt, who shook his head and threw up his hands in exasperation. Blaine was caught, for a second; he knew that this might be one of the very few convenient opportunities that he would get to talk to Burt alone, but Kurt's potential disappointment in him was already almost too much to bear. Hesitantly steeling himself, he reached to take the cigar and stood up, trying his best to ignore the way Kurt bristled.

“I'll be in the living room,” Kurt muttered shortly, stalking out of the kitchen with tension plain in his shoulders.

“He won't be pissed for long,” Burt said, clapping a hand on Blaine's shoulder, “Carole's fixing to get _A Christmas Story_ started.”

Blaine smiled tightly, standing up. “You smoke a cigar every Christmas?”

“Old tradition of my dad's,” Burt offered by way of explanation. “Gotta pass it on to someone. I'll be outside.”

Once Blaine had pulled on his coat, he took a deep breath. He was more than comfortable enough around Kurt's father after the number of years they'd been together; they felt like family already. But that didn't serve to make him any less nervous about what he was about to do. What he was about to ask.

Outside, Burt already had his cigar lit. Blaine shivered, pulling his coat tighter around himself before sitting down in the wooden deck chair next to Burt's, a small table between them with a small glass ashtray in the center. He held the cigar between his fingers uncertainly for a moment.

“You don't have to if you don't want to, kid,” Burt said, his gaze fixed somewhere in the middle of the lawn. “I only offered so I could get you out here; you've been acting squirrelly all day.”

Blaine chuckled, his breath a plume in the light of the kitchen that spilled out onto the patio. “I'm not really a cigar kinda guy.”

“Didn't think so. Now tell me what's up,” Burt said, casting Blaine a knowing glance.

“Mr. Hummel—“

“Burt.”

“Burt,” Blaine corrected. “The reason I wanted to talk to you alone is...”

“You're not gonna get me to have another _talk_ with Kurt, are you? Because son, I think that ship has long since sailed into the sunset.”

Blaine bit his lip at Burt's almost casual use of the word 'son' and tried not to let it sting too fiercely.

“No, no. Nothing like that.” He paused, struggling to grab the threads of the words he wanted to say.

“Then what is it?” Burt prompted after a long moment, puffing on the cigar. The smoke hung thickly in the still air around them, and Blaine had to admit that the smell wasn't entirely terrible. It was a strong scent that had an edge of something slightly unpleasant, but it was rich, deep and intriguing.

Blaine sat straighter in his seat, turning to face Kurt's father fully. “I'd like to formally ask your permission to marry your son.”

Burt set the cigar down in the ashtray, the light breeze making the curls of smoke dance lazily towards Blaine. He inhaled slowly, eyes boring into Blaine's as if he was sizing him up.

“You love him.”

“Yes, sir,” Blaine answered, knowing Burt was simply acknowledging the fact rather than questioning it.

“And you're gonna treat him right.”

“Yes, sir. For as long as he'll have me.”

Another long, _long_ pause. “Well, I'll do you one better. You've got my permission and my blessing,” Burt said. “When are you asking him?”

Blaine exhaled heavily, running a hand through his unruly curls. “That, I honestly have no idea. I've run through so many different dates in my head. The thing with Kurt is that he loves romance but it has to be original. No cheesy, cliché Christmas or New Year's proposal. Not on an anniversary or a birthday and definitely not on Valentine's.”

Burt chuckled. “You know him pretty well, I'll give you that.”

“Like the back of my hand,” Blaine replied absently.

“You getting him a ring?”

Blaine nodded. He carried the ring with him everywhere; there wasn't an inch of their apartment that was safe, especially when Kurt was on a cleaning kick. “I have it right here,” he said, slowly, pulling the small box from the pocket of his coat and holding it in his lap. “I can't keep it in the apartment.”

“Can I?” Burt asked, and Blaine handed over the box. Burt let out a low whistle when he saw the thick titanium band studded with three small diamonds, and he cleared his throat gruffly before passing it back to Blaine. “You did good, kid.”

* * *

Kurt watched the exchange, wide-eyed, from his bedroom window. The window was closed so Kurt hadn't known what they were talking about until Blaine had reached into his pocket and produced a small, dark box and passed it to Kurt's father. He had averted his gaze at that point, only looking back after an agonizing minute had passed. Burt stood, firmly shaking Blaine's hand before pulling him into a brief hug and clapping a hand on his shoulder.

 _I only came up to change into my pajamas_ , Kurt thought, dazed. _He was asking Dad's permission_.

He hardly dared to believe his own eyes. They'd talked about getting married before, of course they had. Especially since moving to New York, where gay marriage was legal. But apart from that one conversation at the top of the Empire State Building the day after they moved into their first apartment (and Blaine had seemed to have a renewed fascination with Kurt's butt, so he was never sure that Blaine had really been listening or even knowing what he was agreeing to), Blaine had never given any real indication that he was one day intending to propose, saying only that when the time was right, they'd do it.

The laws in Ohio had finally changed, and apparently, the time was right.

“Hey, you,” came Blaine's voice from the doorway, the scent of cigar smoke accompanying him. Kurt felt like he was going to burst out of his skin.

“Hey,” he replied, shakily. His hands were trembling, and he curled his fingers into his jeans to try and hide it as best he could. “I just came up to change into my pajamas. It's another Christmas tradition. But you don't have to, um... if you're cold, or... anything.”

Blaine shot him a quizzical look. “I figured I'll take a shower and then I'll join you guys. But don't feel like you have to wait for me.”

“No, no, of course we will,” Kurt said quickly. A flash of concern passed across Blaine's face.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly, taking a half-step forward. Kurt did his best to appear unfazed as he stood, nodding and smiling as genuinely as he could. An awkward and unnatural silence settled between them, and before Blaine could say anything else, Kurt turned on his heel and crossed the room, yanking open the door to his walk-in closet and stepping out of Blaine's sight. He held his breath while Blaine retrieved his wash bag from the suitcase and retreated into the bathroom. As soon as Kurt heard the shower running, he slumped against the door frame.

_Too much?_

_Always. But I wouldn't change it._

Kurt hadn't really had any idea of the truth of his own words until that moment. Seeing Blaine pull that box from his pocket, turning it over in his hands... That box contained the ring he was going to give to Kurt when he proposed.

Blaine was going to propose. He was going to ask Kurt to be his, forever. Until they were old and gray (but still impeccably fashionable), sitting on a porch somewhere, still holding hands and smiling whenever they'd hear _Teenage Dream_ on the radio during a 'golden oldies' show or something equally as silly. There was something burning in his stomach. Glowing embers of a burnt-out ache; bittersweet longing and need that he'd thought long since replaced by love and passion and security. It was almost too much, and Kurt knew that if he let Blaine anywhere near him that night, he wouldn't be able to contain himself. He would blurt out what he'd seen and ruin the whole thing.

So he decided to keep his distance that night, as much as he could without making Blaine suspicious. Sleep would help calm and re-center him; it always had in the past. And if Blaine asked what was going on, he would tell him... He would tell him that he couldn't stand the smell of the cigar smoke that still clung to his skin.

When he made his way downstairs, Kurt chose to sit in the ugly armchair of his father's that always reminded him of Chandler and Joey's Barcaloungers in _Friends_. It was uncomfortable, molded more to Burt's shape than his own, but better that than sitting with Blaine's arm around his shoulders, Blaine's chest rising and falling against Kurt's cheek, Blaine's steady heartbeat synchronizing with his own. Better that than losing his grip on the energy and excitement that clamored beneath his skin and exploding into a million pieces, all of them screaming 'yes' in a thousand different dialects. Kurt wondered, for a moment, if Blaine would propose here. If he was honest, now that he was faced with the reality that it was going to happen, he didn't really mind the prospect of a holiday proposal. But he wanted it to be just the two of them. They were each other's firsts, and when Blaine asked Kurt to be his last, it was a moment that Kurt wanted to share with no one.

“You okay, Kurt?”

Burt's voice broke Kurt's reverie, and he wrapped his arms around himself as he looked at his dad sitting next to Finn at the farthest end of the couch.

“The best,” Kurt replied softly, noticing the way Burt tried to surreptitiously steal a glimpse of his son's ring finger. For a fleeting moment, he looked like he wanted to say something else, and Kurt braced himself. Thankfully, right at that moment, Carole came bustling in with bowls of popcorn and bags of the low-fat chips that were on Kurt's pre-approved list. He had to hide a grin at the disgruntled look on Burt's face when he realized that Christmas was just another day when it came to snacks.

They chatted amiably for a few minutes as they waited for Blaine. Kurt managed to steer the conversation around to focus on Finn who, much to Kurt's surprise, was talking about the current state of the economy in an informed and knowledgeable manner. He really had blossomed in college, finally finding himself on the right track, and had come out with a solid degree in Business and Economics. Having a strong father figure with a legacy to leave to his children had finally given Finn the right way in which to prove himself, and Kurt had never been prouder to call him his brother.

Blaine finally padded into the room, devastating in a black wife-beater and gray pajama pants with his hair still damp.

“Hey, sweetie,” Carole greeted him brightly as he took a seat at the end of the couch closest to Kurt.

“So, I've never seen _A Christmas Story_ ,” Blaine admitted somewhat sheepishly.

“Well, you're in for a treat. It's a classic,” Kurt managed, shooting his fiancé— _boyfriend, Kurt, it hasn't happened yet_ —a warm smile.

For the most part, the rest of the evening passed without incident. Every time Blaine's fingers brushed against his, a frisson of sparks darted up and down Kurt's spine, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from doing something really stupid like clambering gracelessly onto the garage roof and singing made-up songs about Blaine's hair or something. He was almost making himself want to throw up. By the end of the movie, Kurt had a terrible headache from watching in darkness, and the urge to stage a one-man rooftop show had been overcome by the pressure behind his eyes. Mostly.

After bidding his family a good night and thanking them for a wonderful Christmas, Kurt let Blaine lead him up to the stairs to bed and gratefully accepted the glass of cold water and Tylenol with which he was presented.

“Are you sure you're okay, baby?” Blaine asked, his hands light on Kurt's knees as he knelt in front of him. Kurt pitched forward slowly, leaning his forehead against Blaine's.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” he replied, carefully evading the question.

“Always,” Blaine said, and to Kurt, it sounded like a promise.

Soon afterward, Blaine was turning off the lights, climbing into bed behind him and whispering I love you into his ear. Finally relaxing into Blaine's arms, Kurt could already feel himself drifting off, and his last thought before sleep claimed him was that maybe he should have pursued a career in acting after all.


	11. The Bucket List

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** This chapter PG-13  
>  **Spoilers:** None.  
>  **Disclaimer:** I paint the pictures; I just borrow the names.  
>  **Author's Note:** Warning: this is a long one, but hopefully worth it! The song that Blaine and Kurt sing together at the end of part six is 'Lego House' by Ed Sheeran—one of my current favourites. The song that Blaine sings to Kurt is of my own creation, and is titled 'The Knight and The Oak Tree'. It's an idea upon which I've been fixated for a while. I'd been trying to write the song almost since I began this story (fun fact: the titles of each part of this chapter are lyrics from earlier versions of the song), and one night during me trying to struggle through writing part six, it all just came out in a very raw and emotional five-minute rush. It was an incredible and terrible experience all in one; I've never written anything in that way before, and I actually cried a little afterward. Thank you all for continuing to read!

**Chapter Eleven - The Bucket List**  
 _Saturday 27 August, 2044_

“Baby, you have to put me out of my misery,” Kurt pleaded, doing his best impression of Blaine's patented puppy-eyes. “Tell me why. And I know you weren't waiting for the laws to change back home because you don't even remember that conversation.”

Blaine took a deep, bracing breath, fiddling with a button on his cardigan that was coming loose. “Okay. Okay, I'll tell you. It's a long story.”

“So it should be,” Kurt replied, shifting in his seat and settling in.

“It all began... I guess it all began one random day in the middle of the week, back at Dalton,” Blaine started, shooting Kurt an affectionate look and reaching over to lightly squeeze his hand. “I was on my way to a Warblers performance, and this beautiful boy stopped me on the stairs—”

“Blaine.”

“What?”

“You're supposed to be telling me why it took you two and a half years to propose to me after you first realized that you actually wanted to propose to me,” Kurt huffed impatiently.

“But I am,” Blaine replied, and Kurt regarded him quizzically. “And it all starts with the day we first met. As I was saying, this gorgeous boy stopped me on the stairs...”

* * *

**Part One: My Missing Puzzle Piece, I'm Complete**  
 _Monday 9 January, 2017_

_“Dude, is that your boyfriend?” a blond guy dancing next to him shouted over the noise, gesturing to the stage. Blaine followed his gaze, but couldn't see anyone familiar in the group of performers. He turned back to the guy to ask him who he meant, but found himself alone at the end of the pier. It was dark, save for the light of the moon rippling across the surface of the Hudson River._

_**Bzzz! Bzzz!** You make me feel like I'm livin' a tee—_

Threads of his lonely dream fluttering away from him, Blaine rolled onto his side and hit _Dismiss_ rather than _Snooze_ , having forgotten to turn it off the night before. Kurt had the week off work—Stephanie was at French _Vogue_ until the following Wednesday and, with the exception of Paris Fashion Week, always used one of the two assistants to the French editor-in-chief, Arianne Collette. Kurt had decided to capitalize by taking some vacation time to rest and relax with his boyfriend. It was a rare week of respite, and Blaine couldn't help but take a moment to lie back and bask. The previous day, Blaine had called his boss at the cafe where he was working three days a week to call in a favor for those extra shifts he'd worked in the lead-up to Christmas, and since it was quiet, she was more than happy to give him the time off.

Blaine had taken the job to get out of the empty, Kurt-less apartment for at least some of the time. With his inheritance, neither of them really needed to work, but Kurt was doing something he really loved—not to mention the fact that he was adamant that he was going to pay off his own student debts, even if it was really more to do with retaining his sense of independence. Furthermore, working at the cafe got Blaine out of the apartment for long enough each day that he began to experience a newfound excitement for coming home at the end of the day. He and Kurt had also become firm friends with Blaine's fellow baristas Toby and Andrew, who had moved back to their native Brooklyn from Minneapolis after Toby's grandfather had passed away, leaving them his house.

This week, however, was all about them. He'd spent an entire day planning it around Kurt's New York Bucket List—somehow, it was still mostly the same as it was when he'd first written it. Between settling into life with one another, being busy with college and now work, they'd just never had the time.

As Blaine's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he realized that something felt different. It was as if the world had somehow changed; the very air he breathed seemed charged with potential and anticipation. Stretching luxuriously, he turned over to face Kurt, slipping an arm around his waist and smiling against his bare skin as he stirred in his sleep.

This week was the week that, when the right moment presented itself, Blaine Anderson was going to ask a question.

Kurt stirred again, and awoke as Blaine pressed closer into him. He blinked slowly, before returning Blaine's warm embrace and regarding him with bleary eyes and a sleepy smile. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” Blaine said with a light kiss to Kurt's jaw.

“What time is it?”

“Hmm... About seven. I forgot to switch off the alarm,” Blaine murmured. Kurt chuckled as he stretched, stifling a yawn.

“I want to spend all week in this bed with you,” Kurt said, shifting to pull Blaine closer.

“As wonderful as that sounds, it's not really the healthiest way to exist. And anyway, I have plans.”

“Plans?”

“Plans,” Blaine affirmed. “Involving you, me, and Staten Island.”

“Staten Island?”

“We're going to the zoo,” Blaine told him.

*

Grinning to himself, Blaine knew he couldn't have planned this outing on a better day if he had tried. The weekend over, all the kids were back at school and the weather was cold enough to prevent any early field trips. There was hardly anyone else at the zoo, and Kurt hadn't let go of his hand since they'd left the Starbucks on Broadway, shivering slightly in the early morning chill as they waited for a cab to take them to Whitehall Terminal. Around an hour or so later, thoroughly refreshed and wide awake from the ferry, they took the bus further into the hub of Staten Island, both feeling entirely at ease surrounded by the crowd of artists, musicians and students.

The zoo was quiet save for the sounds of the animals, and Blaine couldn't keep his eyes off the way Kurt's entire being seemed to light up as meerkats took tidbits of food from his hand.

“I always thought about working with animals. You know, if I wasn't taking Broadway or the fashion world by storm,” Kurt whispered softly, trying not to disturb his newfound friends. After a moment, he suppressed a shudder. “But the _uniforms_.”

Blaine chuckled at the mental picture of Kurt in a zookeeper's uniform; the images simply refused to mesh together in his mind. But the idea of Kurt working with animals, devoting his time and energy to taking care of and fixing what couldn't otherwise be mended... It made him think back to how Kurt had done that for him. Not even Cooper, to whom he'd always been closer than anyone else, had been able to penetrate the shield he'd constructed for himself after the incident at the dance. And suddenly, there was Kurt, deconstructing the heavy chain mail, link for link, like it was nothing. Blaine had finally let himself heal.

Out of habit, his hand crept into his pocket and tightly held onto the small, velvet box.

“What is it?” Kurt's voice intoned as he straightened up, brushing his hands off. Blaine nervously glanced around and removed his hand from his pocket. This definitely wasn't it. Too impersonal.

“Nothing,” he replied—unconvincingly, judging by the way Kurt sardonically arched an eyebrow in his direction—pulling the map from underneath his arm and smoothing it out against the information stand in front of the meerkat enclosure. “So, where to next?”

* * *

**Part Two: I Wouldn't Care if You Maxed Out My Credit Cards**  
 _Tuesday 10 January, 2017_

_“Blaine, honey, there's a package for you,” his mother called from the kitchen. After a few moments, she wandered into the hallway with it in her hands, tutting and fussing over him when she noticed the slump in his shoulders and dejected look on his face. Even Blaine himself couldn't figure out why he was so sad. He accepted the parcel gratefully, and went upstairs to his room to open it in private._

_With inexplicably trembling hands, he peeled away the brown paper and unwrapped the contents. Inside was a large, black, leather-bound book. It seemed like a photo album, or a scrapbook of some kind. Every page was blank, and there was no inscription. As he flipped through it, an envelope addressed to him fell from between the pages. The handwriting seemed as familiar as his own, but he couldn't place it. He tore open the envelope, but the folded sheets of paper that smelled of lilacs and musk had nothing written upon them._

_**Bzzz! Bzzz!** Can you pay my bills? Can you pay my telepho—_

Blaine woke up confused and disoriented. A pale, wintry sunlight was filtering through the curtains and the room was silent, but as he turned his head towards the door he thought that maybe he could hear the sound of oil sizzling in a pan.

Trying to shrug off the lingering remnants of his dream, he got out of the bed and picked up his loose pajama pants from their usual spot on the floor. He slipped them on quickly, rolling his neck from side to side in an attempt to ease the creeping tension. His eyes went to the top shelf of the bookcase, to the very left, to where the unassuming black spine of The Book stood sandwiched between the begrudgingly well-thumbed copy of _Baking for Dummies_ that Kurt had semi-ironically presented him with one Tuesday afternoon, and the unread copy of _Emotional Intelligence for Dummies_ with which Blaine had retaliated two days later (the pink page marker was still unmoved from its place at the section about empathy). He smiled briefly at the memory and let his fingertips drift down the black leather, reassuring himself that it was still there and most definitely not blank.

“It's Tuesday,” came a high, child-like voice out of nowhere. Something soft and fluffy was placed on his shoulder, and in his peripheral vision, Blaine could see it was the plush meerkat toy he'd bought for Kurt at the zoo gift shop. Blaine hummed in the affirmative, turning around with drooping eyelids, and Kurt continued with the voice, “chocolate chip or strawberry?”

“I feel like it's definitely a chocolate chip day.”

Kurt lowered Aleksandr—the name he'd affectionately given the meerkat after watching a bunch of old English commercials for some comparison website on YouTube—and nuzzled against his nose. “Bad dream?”

“ _Weird_ dream,” Blaine said after pausing to consider it. “How did you know?”

“You were tossing a lot,” Kurt dismissed with a wave of his hand. It had woken him over an hour earlier but he didn't mind, just set about making pancakes like he always did when Blaine was having a bad dream. “Weird dream usually means maple syrup.”

“It's definitely a chocolate chip day,” Blaine repeated, allowing himself one last self-indulgent sigh, and turned his face upwards. “But despite that, it's also another Bucket List day.”

Kurt brightened, the creases of his furrowed brow smoothing. “What are we doing today?”

Blaine grinned knowingly. “Shopping.”

*

Blaine had seen Kurt in various states of terrifying over the years they had been together. Kurt stressing out over costumes for the New Directions; Kurt panicking over last-minute changes to choreography or arrangement; Kurt yelling at him in a darkened parking lot; Kurt tearing out his hair for two weeks as his inspiration ran dry. And it wasn't like they'd never been to Barneys before. But Kurt, at Barneys, during post-holiday sale season... He was a ruthless mercenary, and Blaine was sure he'd finish out the day with one arm six inches longer than the other at how quickly Kurt was dragging him from department to department. And there really wasn't any method to Kurt's madness, Blaine mused as he was pulled up another escalator. Kurt wouldn't stick to one floor before moving up to the next. He was careening from one level of the store to the next and back down again, baskets overflowing with clothes and accessories and throw pillows and blankets and, unfathomably considering they no longer owned a dinner table, napkin rings. It wasn't until Blaine found himself hovering somewhat awkwardly outside the changing rooms in the menswear department that he took a moment to catch his breath, feeling a little like a pack mule. He wasn't waiting for long before Kurt was stepping out from between the swinging, saloon-style doors and _oh_.

Kurt had always looked good in Hugo Boss, but this was something else. Maybe it had a little something to do with the fact that Blaine was searching for the perfect moment to propose, but he couldn't help the vision that rose in his mind at that very moment; Kurt on his father's arm, walking towards him down an aisle that was scattered with cherry blossoms, wearing a boutonniere of lilacs that matched the color of his waistcoat.

“What do you think?” Kurt asked, adjusting the cuffs and smoothing the lapels of the jacket.

“It's...” Blaine cleared his throat. “Almost perfect.”

“You're right,” Kurt replied, hands on his hips as he turned to the side. “I'd have to have it taken in a little, around the waist.”

“Not what I meant,” Blaine said quietly, moving to stand behind him and placing his hand over the top pocket. “It's missing something, right here.”

“A pocket square, maybe?” Kurt asked, puzzled as he met Blaine's eyes in the mirror.

“I was thinking more... A flower,” he whispered, his voice shaking. Kurt's eyes were locked on his, and Blaine knew that this was it; The Moment. Slowly, ever so slowly, Kurt turned around to face him.

“Are you—“

“I'm sorry it took so long to find this, sir! I had to run out back, but better late than never, right?”

Blaine bit back the harsh, frustrated cry that had built in his throat as soon as he'd caught the sales assistant out of the corner of his eye. Just like that, the moment was gone.

“Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry. Am I interrupting something?” the sales assistant—Thomas, Blaine read from his name tag—asked, nervously rushing over his words. After a long moment, Kurt turned to him with a tight smile.

“Not at all. Thank you, Thomas,” he said smoothly, accepting the tie of rich purple silk overlaid with a gold fleur-de-lis motif. Thomas leaned forward a few inches, almost looking like he was about to bow as a servant would to his master, before scurrying back out of the changing rooms. Kurt chuckled nervously, eyes lingering on the tie before flickering upwards to meet Blaine's and biting his lip. “What were you saying?”

Blaine shook his head, doing his best to smile. He had been so sure that this was it, dammit. “Just how good you look in this suit,” he managed, turning Kurt back to face the mirror and taking the tie from his hands to drape it over Kurt's shoulder. “Although you said something about having it taken in?”

“It just runs a little wide at the waist. There's a reason I go to the gym four times a week and don't allow myself carbs,” Kurt replied, his hand fingering the chest pocket. “You know, I think you're right. Maybe we could use a pocket square here. Or something.”

Blaine closed his eyes, and prayed for strength.

* * *

**Part Three: Starlight Eyes**  
 _Wednesday 11 January, 2017_

_The play had been a huge success; that was true. But there was that one move that Blaine had messed up, and he wanted to be the best he could possibly be. He had someone in his life that he wanted to make proud. But... who was it? Who was this nameless, faceless entity that somehow gave him the drive to do better, to be better?_

_He practiced until he had the move perfected, and left the auditorium with one last glance back. For a fleeting moment, he thought that perhaps he'd caught a movement out of the corner of his eye; a glimpse of chestnut hair and white sleeves exiting stage left. He shook his head, blinking hard and telling himself that crazy people don't know they're crazy._

_At home, he stretched out on his bed in his comfortable gray wife-beater and favorite pinstriped pajama pants and felt a light pressure on his chest. A hand. A thumb. Fingers catching in the fabric. A second heartbeat next to his own. But there was no one there, and the only sounds were his unsteady breathing and the soft strains of the radio._

_**Bzzz! Bzzz!** I really can't stay, but baby it's cold outsi—_

“I'm sensing a pattern,” Kurt said, pulling his scarf tighter around him and taking a sip of one of the last grande peppermint mochas of the season.

“You sense correctly, young grasshopper,” Blaine deadpanned in his best Mr Miyagi voice. Kurt elbowed him in the ribs. “Should we huddle for warmth, like penguins?”

Kurt seemed to consider the idea for a second, before stepping closer to Blaine, who grinned and unbuttoned his long woolen coat to wrap it around the both of them. Kurt's head dropped onto his shoulder and he was muttering the word “dork” under his breath but shooting him an affectionate smile all the same. “You should be Bridget; you're shorter.”

Blaine tightened the coat around them both, rubbing his hands up and down Kurt's back. “True as that may be, I don't think there's enough room for us both inside yours,” he reasoned, plucking at the collar of Kurt's tight leather jacket and dropping his head down to whisper in his ear, “and as much as I'd really, _really_ love to put my hands underneath, I think we'd be warming up for an entirely non-public-friendly reason.”

Kurt blushed hotly, and was thankful that at that moment, the tour bus arrived. Blaine disentangled from him reluctantly, and Kurt shivered at the sudden chill, pulling their tickets from his pocket and stepping forward to hand them to the tour guide. They boarded the bus quickly, and of course— _of course_ —Blaine went bounding up the stairs to the open top of the bus. On a freezing cold day. In the middle of January.

“Blaine, it's in the fucking forties,” Kurt muttered, his teeth chattering.

“Your list should have been more specific, then,” Blaine quipped, enjoying the view as the rest of the passengers climbed aboard. The engine was a steady rumble beneath his hand on the metal railing, and it reminded him of New York as a whole, with its thrum of electricity and mechanisms and technology. It was comforting, in a way; when your whole world was standing still, you had a constant.

It didn't take long for Kurt to settle back against Blaine, a contented breath misting into the air in front of them.

“Look at it this way,” Blaine whispered as the bus pulled out and their tour guide took up his post at the front, beginning his welcoming spiel, “I _really_ wouldn't want to be him right now.”

Kurt stifled a laugh behind his gloved hand. “Just looking at him is making me colder,” he whispered back, taking in their guide, who was wearing a polo, sweater, and shorts. “I hope he's not being forced to wear those.”

“Don't worry, babe. I'm sure he's just insane and not the victim of some cruel, sadistic tour company.”

*

It turned out that Blaine's assessment of their guide's mental state seemed, to a certain extent, to be accurate. When they had finally left the Museum of Natural History (having spent the majority of their time there lying on the floor in the Milstein Hall of Ocean Life), somehow their timing coincided with that of their original bus. As they took a seat back up top, the guide animatedly re-introduced himself to everyone as Johnny, and at that point Blaine may have gripped Kurt's hand a little _too_ tightly—the guide's uncanny resemblance to a young Jack Nicholson already had him on edge. His worst fears went unconfirmed, however, until they were en route to the Harlem Market and Johnny—seemingly immune to the bitter cold which had yet to rise above the lower forties—attempted to take off his sweater and promptly got stuck. The longer it took him to wiggle free, the more the tourists on the upper deck laughed, and the more Blaine relaxed. Until Johnny finally righted himself, that is, and raised the mic to his mouth to say the worst two words he could possibly have chosen.

“ _Heeeeeere's Johnny!_ ”

Blaine knew it was awful, and cheesy, and intended to make the guide's newly captive audience laugh with him rather than at him. He knew all of this. It didn't make a lick of difference; all at once he was eight years old again and hiding behind the couch, roiling with jealousy at how his big brother could be so cool and not at all frightened of the scary man chopping through the door with the ax.

Kurt was cursing under his breath, squeezing Blaine's hand reassuringly and leaning closer. “ _I really can't stay_ ,” he sang quietly, “ _I've got to go away, this evening has been so very nice..._ ”

Blaine let out a shaky breath and opened his eyes, focusing only on Kurt. He'd been wrong about New York being his constant. It was, and always would be, Kurt.

Half an hour after they had disembarked and Kurt had set an alarm to go off in exactly ninety minutes so that they wouldn't be catching the same bus again, they found themselves in the thick of African culture, the atmosphere so potent that it was hard to believe they were still on the same continent. The sights and scents and sounds wove around them and drew them from stall to stall, vendor to vendor, eyes glassy with wonder.

“I wish the magazine would cover somewhere like this,” Kurt said, as they passed between two stalls selling different types of tribal jewelry from Gambia and Kenya. “Stephanie would adore some of this stuff, and the whole place is like... It's like fashion meets art.”

“You should pitch it to her. You know she listens to you,” Blaine replied, hooking his arm through the crook of Kurt's elbow and failing to avoid the stare of the woman at the henna stall across the way. Something about the intensity of her gaze unsettled Blaine; he felt uncomfortably like she could look at him and see directly into his soul. Then her eyes shifted towards Kurt, and she was on her feet, moving quickly towards him.

“What is your name?” she demanded in heavily-accented English. Kurt looked dumbfounded, and she grabbed his hand, repeating herself.

“K-Kurt,” he stammered, clearly caught off-guard.

“I am Nanyanika. They call me Nan,” she says, gesturing around herself with her free hand before turning back towards them. “You belong, yes?”

“Belong?” Kurt repeated, confused.

“You are his,” Nan said, pointing from Kurt to Blaine and back again. “He is yours.”

“Oh! Yes. Yes, we belong,” Kurt said, ducking his head. Nan nodded.

“Come, I show you your life,” she said, dropping Kurt's wrist and going back to her stall, sitting down and fixing them with an expectant look as she pulled brushes and ink from her workstation.

“Could be fun,” Blaine murmured, “but a henna tattoo?”

“Let's do it,” Kurt said decisively.

“The ink stains, you know.”

“I'll get her to cover it. All bets are off this week. You're making my bucket list happen, Blaine. I want some souvenirs. And anyway,” Kurt paused, his fingers light on Blaine's chest, “isn't it kinda... hot?”

Wordless in agreement, Blaine took Kurt's hand and closed the distance between themselves and Nan's stall. When she gestured for them to do so, they seated themselves on the small wooden stools, eyes roving across the walls of the hut behind her, papered with symbols and designs the meanings of which escaped them both. Nan reached forward, and Kurt rolled up the sleeve of his jacket to the elbow.

“I paint three things. Past, present, and future,” she murmured, painting the symbols onto the inside of Kurt's forearm. Her eyes never left Kurt's face, and she answered his unasked question, “we see what comes out after.”

Blaine watched her with a sense of quiet amazement; she couldn't see what she was doing, yet three symbols were taking shape, a shock of ink against Kurt's pale skin.

“These are very important,” said Nan, finishing the third symbol with a deft flick of her wrist and looking down at her work. She pointed to the first symbol; what appeared to be two crossed scythes. “This is past. _Akofena_. Courage.”

Kurt gasped softly, smiling as he caught Blaine's eye and tightening his grip on Blaine's hand.

“This is present. _Pempamsie_. Means you are ready,” Nan continued, pointing to the second symbol, which could almost have been a butterfly. She quickly moved onto the third, a sun over a crescent moon. “This is future. _Osram ne nsoromma_. Love and harmony.”

“They are important,” Kurt said softly, agreeing with her earlier sentiment. He sounded close to overcome. “I wish they were permanent.”

Nan shook her head and pointed to the middle symbol. “Next week, this become your past,” she said, with a sharp look at Blaine. “Your future become your present, and you get new future. You move forward, don't get stuck.”

Kurt nodded and, seemingly satisfied, Nan released his arm and held out her hand for Blaine's. Awkwardly, he rolled up his sleeve and hesitantly settled his wrist onto Nan's palm. She didn't start painting straight away, as she had with Kurt; she seemed to be searching out something in his eyes. It took all of his willpower not to break the eye contact.

“You must stop hiding,” Nan said, simply, as he finally felt the wet press of ink against his skin. Inclining her head towards Kurt, she continued, “he sees you. I see you. But no one else. This is a shame.”

It felt like no time at all until she was finished, setting her brush back on top of her workstation and glancing down at the symbols.

“What do they mean?” Blaine prompted after a few moments passed.

“They could mean a lot of things. You only know one path, but it cannot be your only path. Do you understand?”

Blaine nodded, swallowing hard.

“You must make your way. Do not be afraid. This is _sesa wo suban_ , transformation,” she said of the first symbol; a star inside a circle with curved lines spreading outward. She quickly moved onto the next two symbols: his present was four circles in a square formation, and his future was three circles inside one another. “Your present is _me ware wo_ , commitment. Your future is uncertain, but if you are unafraid in your present, it can be _adinkrahene_. Greatness.”

Both Kurt and Blaine were silent for a time, contemplating their tattoos and what they meant.

“You come back and see me when your future is present,” Nan said, pulling them both from their contemplation. Kurt nodded emphatically, which surprised Blaine—Kurt had a habit of rejecting most things spiritual, preferring to ground himself in what he could see and touch. He was always quick to roll his eyes and change the channel whenever they came across TV evangelists preaching between cereal commercials and political broadcasts. Yet here he was.

Back at the bus stop, Blaine linked his left hand with Kurt's right, aware of the fact that the tattoos pressed together beneath their sleeves. Briefly, he wondered if Nan had done it deliberately, and his hand went to that little black box once more.

“Thank you,” Kurt said, dropping his head onto Blaine's shoulder and stifling a yawn. “Take me home, please.”

“What about the Guggenheim?” Blaine asked. “I thought you wanted to see the new John Chamberlain installation.”

“Another time,” Kurt said, his voice low and meaningful as he tilted his gaze upwards.

“Subway?”

“Subway.”

* * *

**Part Four: No More Solos Tonight**  
 _Thursday 13 January, 2017_

_Blaine's head was pounding; his eyes were sore; his throat felt raw and hoarse. He came around slowly, only half-aware that he was wearing the same clothes as the previous night. He was tangled up in sheets that felt entirely different to his own, and his stomach dropped when it occurred to him what might have happened. Someone was humming quietly in the background, but when he turned towards the source, he saw only an empty chair. He slumped back into the bed, unable to summon the energy to care about his unfamiliar surroundings when the sheets were so pleasantly cool; soft and soothing against the harsh and jagged edges of which he was made._

_**Bzzz! Bzzz!** Blow the candles out, looks like a solo tonight, I'm begi—_

If Blaine was jittering with excitement, Kurt was practically vibrating with it. Until Blaine had seen number twelve on Kurt's bucket list, he'd never have entertained the notion that Kurt was the type to even go near a rollercoaster, let alone enjoy them. Sure, Kurt had come to see him perform at Six Flags the summer before senior year, but he and his family had only been passing through on their way to visit relatives, so were unable to stay and really enjoy the park itself—though Kurt had certainly seemed to enjoy the short yet charged make-out session when Blaine dragged him backstage between sets.

So when Blaine saw the words, ' _Ride all of the Coney Island rollercoasters_ ' on the list, it definitely surprised him. He'd always had an image of Kurt in his mind, and that image had never included a facet of adrenalin junkie. But yet again, here was Kurt constantly challenging his perception.

They stepped off the F train at Stillwell Avenue, the fresh and salty sea air cocooning them in a not entirely unpleasant chill, and walked around to the pier at a leisurely pace.

“Where first?” Blaine asked, glancing around as they got in line for the ticket booth. Being a Thursday, the park was fairly quiet and seemed to be populated mainly by tourists that gave the impression of being used to cold weather simply by the way they walked with heads held high against the breeze. Blaine had lucked in that the park was even open, given the time of year, but a multi-million dollar regeneration project had been completed the previous year; the Coney Island attractions were now open year-round.

“Luna Park,” Kurt answered, taking a step forward as the line moved. Turning to Blaine, he continued, “not that I'm complaining, but what's the occasion?”

“It's another Bucket List day,” Blaine replied, pulling his wallet from his back pocket.

“That's what I mean,” Kurt pressed, “why are we doing all this now?”

“Because we've lived in New York for years and between school and work and going home whenever we could, the only thing we've really done is see the Statue of Liberty. And that was for a field trip. That we took a year apart. We live in the greatest city in the world and we've never spent any time being disgustingly 'tourist' about the place,” Blaine proclaimed, choosing to leave out the fact that this entire week was geared towards finding that magical combination of timing, setting and ambiance.

“What about our first New York date?”

“Doesn't count.”

“And why not?” Kurt asked hotly, hand on hip.

“Because you were wearing your 'fuck me' jeans and baby, we may have been at the top of the Empire State Building, but all I can remember is spending an hour staring at your ass,” Blaine stated matter-of-factly, and gestured to the people ahead of them. “Line's moving.”

“So wait, you don't remember a _thing_ we talked about that night?”

“Kurt, we hadn't been together properly in over a year, it was the day after we moved into our first apartment and you were wearing ridiculously tight, vintage McQueens. I couldn't even remember my own name that night.”

Kurt sighed and shook his head. “I guess I noticed you were a little unfocused, but it was an important conversation.”

“Hey,” Blaine said softly, his tone placating. “I'm sorry, I was just kidding. Of course I remember what we talked about.”

“You do?”

“You bet,” Blaine replied, adding with a wink, “I wasn't kidding about the jeans, though.”

Kurt finally smiled, linking arms with his boyfriend and moving forward to the window of the booth. Once they had their wristbands for the park and were making their way down to the boardwalk, Kurt circled in front of Blaine and stopped.

“I don't think I've said a real thank you for everything you've done this week.”

“Last night was more than enough of a thank you,” Blaine laughed, catching Kurt by the waist and kissing the spot just behind his ear. “I'm still sore.”

“Good,” Kurt said firmly, and Blaine could feel the warmth in his cheeks until he pulled away, eyes sparkling. “Come on.”

*

Blaine was the first to throw up. Being fairly seasoned when it came to rollercoasters, he was vehemently vocal in his blame of the breakfast cafe at which they'd stopped before getting on the train that morning. He survived the Cyclone and even the Steeplechase, but the Soarin' Eagle twisted at his insides and as soon as they disembarked, he staggered away from a flushed and ecstatic Kurt to empty the contents of his stomach into the nearest trash can.

“Are you okay?” Kurt's voice came from over his shoulder, and Blaine could feel him rubbing circles into his back. He nodded, weakly, and gratefully accepted the bottle of water Kurt held out to him, rinsing and spitting before swallowing another mouthful with a grimace.

“Let's go, we still have to do the Sling Shot,” he said, when the ground finally stopped pulsing.

Kurt's look was one of alarm. “You just got sick, Blaine. I am not letting you get on that ride.”

Blaine shook his head. “I'm feeling much better, I promise. It was definitely the omelet. I knew it tasted weird,” he said, taking another drink.

Kurt paused for a long moment, seeming to be carefully considering something, and a wicked grin curved his lips. “Okay. Let's go.”

Momentarily taken aback, Blaine watched Kurt turn and take a few steps in the direction of the historic rollercoaster. _That was too easy_ , he thought, but quickly dismissed his doubts when Kurt stopped, glanced over his shoulder and nodded in the direction of the Sling Shot.

A few minutes later, they were barefoot and being strapped into the car of the Sling Shot by the friendly park attendants. Somewhere a bell rang that reminded Blaine of high school, and they were tipped backwards. Blaine focused on the cloudy gray sky above as they rocked back and forth. Another bell sounded, and he grabbed Kurt's hand. _Constant_.

“It's been nice knowing you,” he ground out, eyes squeezed tightly shut, and before he knew it— _whoosh!_ They were catapulted upwards, and the only thing Blaine could hear over the roar of the wind in his ears was Kurt's delighted and hysterical half-scream, half-laugh. He forced his eyes open, and for an endless second, everything froze. They were suspended in mid-air, moving a fraction of an inch per minute. Kurt was beautiful, and alive, and Blaine's.

 _He could be, for the rest of your life_ , a voice somewhere in the back of his head chimed in, and that was all it took.

“Marry me!” he cried.

“What?!”

“ _MARRY ME!_ ”

“ _I can't hear you!_ ” Kurt screamed back. Gravity kicked back in: they were tumbling and falling and rising back up and falling again, and all he could hear was the howl of the wind as it whipped through them.

“Fuck,” he whispered; his only acknowledgment.

*

For a fleeting instant, the sun had stopped in the sky, the planets had aligned and everything felt right. But the moment had passed; the sun was still moving, the planets were still orbiting around it and Blaine's proposal had been lost to the wind. The fact that the day ended with candles scattered around the room, wrapping the warm atmosphere around his body and Kurt's where they lay tangled together on the living room floor picking at cotton candy, well. That was enough for Blaine.

The only thing that troubled him was the conversation to which Kurt had referred while they had been in line at the ticket booth. Despite his protestations, he had no recollection of an important conversation—the only thing he could remember from that night was a feeling not dissimilar to being pleasantly tipsy and mellowed out, seeing everything through soft focus and being positively drunk on the fact that he could turn and kiss Kurt whenever he wanted, without having to wait months in between.

The conversation festered in the back of Kurt's mind, too. He knew now that Blaine had no memory of it; he'd had his doubts when the laws had finally changed back home the previous November and nothing had come of it. Maybe he was just being impatient. Maybe Blaine had something huge and romantic planned to sweep Kurt off his feet.

But then again, maybe he didn't.

* * *

**Part Five: Blackbirds Fly and the Ice is Breaking**  
 _Friday 12 January, 2017_

_It had been a solemn day for the Warblers. Pavarotti had sung his last melody and taken his leave of the world with a typically hopeful chirp. Wes had dedicated their performance to their beloved canary, and Blaine had to admit that they had never sounded better, or more united. He had bowed out early, not wanting the rest of the group to see their unelected leader falling apart so close to competition. He couldn't help it; he'd loved their sweet, cheerful mascot as much as the rest of the team._

_Blaine walked into the comforting and familiar surroundings of the student lounge, and caught that glimpse of chestnut again. He stopped short, staring hard at the table before him. He could have sworn... No. He was seeing things. There was no one there. Just a few sheets of paper left behind by the last student._

_**Bzzz! Bzzz!** Blackbird singing in the dead of night, take these bro—_

That was odd. Blaine could have sworn he had just been dreaming about Kurt singing that song at Dalton. But it hadn't been him; it had been just another Warblers number. His dreams were only getting stranger and more unsettling. What disturbed Blaine the most, however, was not the fact that Kurt wasn't in them, but that in the dreams, Blaine was entirely unfazed by his absence.

That creeping tension in his neck was beginning to tiptoe back in. As quickly and quietly as possible, he got out of bed and dressed in sweatpants and a loose tee. Grabbing his iPod and a bottle of water, Blaine let himself out of the apartment and jogged softly down the stairs: he and the sidewalk had some unfinished business to attend to.

When he returned to the apartment nearly ninety minutes later, sweaty and disheveled, Kurt was on the couch, sipping from a steaming cup of coffee and already halfway through the dauntingly thick Stephen King novel he'd started only the previous evening.

“Hey, you,” Kurt greeted him without looking up. Blaine pressed a wet kiss to his cheek, and Kurt laughed, squirming a little. “What are we doing today?”

“Shower. Food. Bucket List day five,” Blaine answered, still slightly out of breath.

Kurt set his book down on the table, carefully marking the page. “Really?”

“Yep. But I'm not telling you what it is. You have to guess.”

*

“The library?” Kurt asked, confused as they stood on the steps of the grand building. Quickly yet meticulously, he began going through the list in his mind—no mean feat, considering it was made up of close to two hundred separate items—but not a single one stood out as having anything to do with the Stephen A. Schwarzman Building for which he had thoroughly exhausted his initial love during college.

Blaine simply wound his fingers through Kurt's and led him past the groups of students sitting on the steps, surrounded by books and papers held down by bottles of water and paperweights, into the familiar cozy warmth of the library.

They spent some time on each floor looking at the collections, discussing in fond, hushed tones Kurt's intense study sessions with Rachel (“If you thought she was insane back at McKinley, you should have seen her that first semester of NYADA. Unhinged doesn't begin to cover it...”), and the all-night study sessions the library had started hosting in their final year, none of which Kurt or Blaine had managed to make it to together, for one reason or another. All the while, Kurt was searching for clues and rattling off numbers from his list that could have had anything to do with the library.

“So _everyone_ could—wait. One forty-three?” Kurt asked, sure this time that he had it. It would be an incredibly round-about way of fulfilling it, but at a stretch it worked.

Blaine shook his head. “Sub zero.”

After exhausting the collections on the second and third floors, they doubled back to Room 100 on the first floor, the periodicals reading room. Sitting opposite sides of a table with copies of Time and Harper's Bazaar (all of which they had at home but never found the time to read), they lapsed into silence. Kurt couldn't focus on the issue he was reading, instead finding himself thinking of the lion statues that guarded the building and how he could really use some of the patience and fortitude for which they stood.

“Seventy-seven?” he tried. It was an incredible long shot.

Blaine simply arched an eyebrow at him. “Liquid nitrogen.”

“Then what is it, you complete dork?” Kurt hissed, attracting sharp looks from the other quiet patrons. Blushing hotly at his own frustrated outburst, he leaned forward. “If you don't tell me right now, I'm going home. You know I hate surprises.”

Blaine set down his issue of Time, and stood. He leaned over Kurt to take from him the old issue of the Hollywood Reporter he'd been reading, and flipped through the first few pages, eyes quickly roaming over each. Finally, he seemed to find what he was looking for, and set it down in front of Kurt. It was open at a double-page interview with Andrew Garfield talking about his directorial debut, _Theorem_. It had been an overnight, worldwide success and was one of their favorite movies.

“Not... It can't be one-seventeen?” Kurt breathed hopefully. He felt himself deflate just a little when Blaine shook his head.

“No, baby,” he whispered, fingers snaking around Kurt's neck and lips brushing against his temple. “Look for numbers.”

“Numbers? Blaine, you've seen this,” he stated incredulously, feeling very much like a student disappointing his teacher as he gestured to the thick blocks of text and the movie poster made up almost entirely of the Pythagoras sequence.

“I'm going to the bathroom. Look for numbers,” Blaine repeated, before turning and striding out of the room with one last glance back.

Kurt slumped in his seat, biting back a howl of frustration that made his throat itch.

Long minutes passed, Kurt scanning the numbers. Methodically, he separated them out, crossing things off the list wherever he could. He strung them back together, reversed them, turned the damn things every which way until he had digits seared inside his eyelids and tingling where Blaine had kissed him.

It occurred to Kurt that Blaine had not yet returned from the bathroom, and a cursory glance at his watch confirmed that it had been at least fifteen minutes—plenty of time for Blaine to get up to the third floor and back down again. He scrubbed a hand over his face, sighing heavily and scanning the page from top to bottom one last time for good measure.

He almost, almost missed it. But realization hit him hard as his eyes rested upon the tiny twenty-nine in the bottom right corner of the page, and suddenly it made sense why Blaine hadn't come back.

Kurt was on his feet and moving quickly before he had time to really take stock, but it was about two-thirty and the library was fairly empty; workers were at work, students were mostly in class or elsewhere. He pushed the door to the bathroom open with a loud bang before whipping around and closing it behind him.

“Oh, thank McQueen there's a lock,” he muttered, the words coming out in a giddy, breathless rush as he slid the old-fashioned bolt across. He turned to face Blaine, who was leaning against the sinks with his arms crossed, grinning wolfishly. “Twenty-nine.”

“Warm,” Blaine answered, uncrossing his arms and holding out a hand. When Kurt took a step closer, he said, “warmer.”

They repeated the process until Kurt was pressing into him, hands either side of his hips on the sink. “Hot,” he whispered into Kurt's mouth, feeling him already half-hard against his thigh, “really, really hot.”

“Why the guessing game?”

“Would you really have agreed to it if I'd just said it? 'Hey Kurt, wanna go have sex in the library?'” Blaine mimicked himself with wide eyes, hands already working on the button of Kurt's jeans.

“Point taken. It is on the list, though,” Kurt conceded, mirroring Blaine's motions, “and I think I might have a Stockholm Syndrome kind of love for your dick.”

“Too much talking,” Blaine said, pressing his fingers to Kurt's mouth.

“Do you have—“

“Pocket.”

The second the word left his mouth, Blaine stopped, realizing exactly what he'd said. Kurt's ring was in his right pocket, the travel-size bottle of KY in his left. Unable to help it, he froze completely, and prayed that Kurt would read it as nerves.

His prayers were cut short as Kurt pushed his jeans down and wrapped his left hand around Blaine's cock, retrieving the lube with his other and slipping it into his own pocket. Blaine let out a low moan as Kurt jerked him roughly, sucking hard at his neck and yanking his scarf looser to get better access, before dropping his hand to rake his nails across the bare skin of Blaine's hip.

“Want you,” Kurt whispered, his breath ghosting hot and moist across Blaine's neck.

Blaine whimpered as Kurt pulled back, the loss of contact making his balls tighten painfully, but it was only moments before Kurt was on his knees and licking across the head of his cock before taking it in his mouth. Kurt had two fingers pushed against his entrance, and Blaine spread his legs wider even though it was becoming increasingly difficult to remain on his feet.

“God, Kurt, this was— _mmm_ —supposed to be about you,” he managed. Kurt simply let out a throaty hum that reverberated through Blaine's entire body, pushing in deeper and crooking his fingers _just_ so before easing in a third. Blaine almost lost it right there and then—Kurt could be surprisingly insatiable sometimes, and they'd had plenty of practice in building up their staying-power, but there was something so deliciously filthy and base about the semi-cleanliness of the bathroom (by which, amazingly, Kurt seemed unfazed) and the scratchy wool of his coat caught between the sink and his ass that was making his toes curl.

“Kurt, _please_ ,” he said brokenly, and Kurt pulled out slowly, releasing his cock with an obscenely wet smacking sound. He straightened up, and Blaine cupped his face in his hands to kiss him deeply, tugging hard on his bottom lip and swiping his tongue along the swollen flesh. Kurt grabbed the bottle from his pocket, quickly spread a generous amount onto his fingers and worked it along his length, moaning into Blaine's mouth at the first real contact with his aching erection.

“Turn around,” he murmured, voice low and gravelly. Blaine's eyes widened almost imperceptibly—they didn't do it like that very often, sharing a mutual preference to be able to kiss and look at one another—but he turned to face away, and his breath hitched in his chest as Kurt pushed inside. He braced himself with one hand on the mirror over the sink as Kurt began fucking him rough and fast, fingernails digging into his hip when their eyes met in the glass.

As good as it felt ( _fucking amazing, never want to stop_ ), when Kurt saw the reflection of Blaine jerking himself in time with his own thrusts, he knew he wouldn't last very long. Though he'd wanted to do this for a long time, just for the experience, he couldn't deny that he'd been worried that it would end up being some completely emotionless, perfunctory act. But knowing that someone could come by at any moment, coupled with the sheer intensity of it all, gave Kurt a thrill that he could barely keep in check. He was close, and judging from the way Blaine had turned his head into his shoulder with teeth buried in his sleeve, he was too.

“Look at me,” Kurt ground out, and Blaine immediately returned his gaze to the mirror; autumn golds circling blown obsidian pupils.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, _Kurt_ ,” Blaine cried out, repeating Kurt's name like a mantra as he came into the sink and over his fingers, Kurt following in the next heartbeat.

He half-collapsed on top of Blaine, feeling dirty and spent yet sated as he pulled out, hands crawling up Blaine's shaking arms. Their labored breathing was a sudden and stark contrast to the silence of the bathroom, and soon they were letting out loose and lazy laughs as they dragged themselves upright and set about cleaning up as best they could.

“That was...” Blaine trailed off, glancing at Kurt almost bashfully as he shucked his jeans back on and righted his coat, leaning over to wash his hands.

“Yeah. Different. Good,” Kurt said, biting his lip at his own inarticulacy.

“I wonder what tomorrow will bring,” Blaine said cryptically, shooting him another of those wolfish grins, and it was all Kurt could do not to demand a second round.

* * *

**Part Six: You Know I'm Less Than Perfect**  
 _Saturday 14 January, 2017_

_Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. The music was playing in the background and he was singing with the perfect amount of flirtatious inflection. It was, however, a duet. Blaine was alone in the common room, yet there was that fleeting streak of chestnut, now only an unattached color upon which he fixated. And where was that voice coming from? Had he burned the wrong version to the CD, the one he used for rehearsing with when his duet partner was busy?_

_No. The voice was far too full of life—and far too physically close, wrapping him up like a blanket—to be coming from the stereo. It surrounded him; tingles and aches along his vertebrae._

_Blaine was alone in the common room. ...Wasn't he?_

_**Bzzz! Bzzz!** And if you have a minute why don't we go, talk about it some—_

Kurt lowered himself onto the bench slowly, handing Andrew a steaming cup of chamomile tea, which the other man accepted gratefully before slumping back into his seat with shaking shoulders. Tentatively, Kurt laid a hand on his back.

“It doesn't feel right, just sitting here while Toby does everything,” Andrew said, exhaustion and resignation evident in his voice.

“Andrew, honey, you weren't helping anyone,” Kurt intoned gently, shooting him a warm smile.

“Thank you, for being here. I know we haven't known each other for very long, but... It helps.”

“Of course,” Kurt replied, “you're our friend.”

The day so far had been eventful, to say the least. Blaine had been in the shower when his phone rang. Kurt answered and found himself talking to Lori, Blaine's boss, who explained that Toby and Andrew had been scheduled to work that day but had had a terrible house fire the previous night and were taking the day to try and figure everything out. After imparting the news, Kurt threw on some clothes and rushed out the door with Blaine, sharing only a quick peck on the lips before leaving in opposite directions: Kurt to Toby and Andrew's house, Blaine to the coffee shop. Kurt had spent the better part of the day helping them try to salvage whatever they could, and dealing with the nosy neighbors that didn't really seem that invested in helping, just finding out what had happened.

Everything was black with soot, and the scent of smoke still hung thickly in the hazy January air. Toby was caught up somewhere between meltdown and overdrive, sorting desperately through charred belongings and all the while blinking back tears that he was adamant were an effect of smoke irritating his eyes.

“If he stops, it'll hit him all at once. This house was all he had left of his grandfather. Such a wonderful man,” Andrew said absently. “It all just happened so _quickly_. When we—“

Kurt glanced across the space between them, and Andrew was biting down on his lip. He didn't know what to say; what could he say that would bring comfort to someone whose home lay in ruins?

“I've been talking about this all day,” Andrew said, shuddering and taking a sip of his tea. “Can we just... Subject change?”

“Of course. Let's talk about something else.”

“Thank you,” Andrew breathed, gratitude and relief layered in his tone. “Take my mind off it, tell me about your week.”

Kurt took a deep breath and immediately wished he hadn't as the acrid stench to which he'd grown accustomed assailed his senses all over again. “It's been amazing,” he began slowly, “but also kind of terrible.”

“How so?”

“Well...”

*

“So, let me get this straight,” Lori said, taking full advantage of the mid-afternoon lull. “You still haven't asked him?”

Blaine wiped his hands off on his apron and shook his head, avoiding her imperious gaze.

“What is _wrong_ with you?”

For the umpteenth time that day—he'd lost count somewhere around fourteen—Blaine ran a hand through his hair. He could feel the way that his world was subtly beginning to shift back on its axis, righting itself once more. Something was off between he and Kurt—once they had returned home the previous day, he had cooked them an early dinner of chicken parmesan which Kurt had only picked at before shutting himself in the office for the rest of the evening. When Blaine had looked in on him before going to bed and asked if anything was wrong, Kurt had lied and said that he was just tired. It felt like the pedal being floored when the car was already accelerating in entirely the wrong direction.

“I know it sounds completely cliché, and... just cheesy but I haven't found the right time. It's Kurt; it has to be perfect.”

He had only one day left of their week together, and was single-mindedly determined that come Monday morning, Kurt would be styling himself with the label of 'fiance'. Taking stock of his attempts so far, he leaned back against the counter top, settling his elbows behind him. The zoo hadn't been the right time or place; he'd been too unsettled and lost in his own thoughts after meeting Nan at the Harlem Market; he was still licking his wounds over the failed proposals at Barney's and Coney Island (looking back, they were kind of terrible anyway); the library was only ever meant as a fun diversion and would never have been the right moment. But he still had tomorrow to sweep Kurt off his feet, and he wasn't going to waste a second.

“Honey,” Lori began, cutting through his whirl of thoughts, “trust me when I say that whenever and wherever you ask are both completely irrelevant. I've seen the way he looks at you when he comes in for his lunchtime coffee. Did you know that he only does that on the days you're working?”

Blaine just stared at her.

“Yeah, didn't think so,” Lori said knowingly. “Look, you're practically married already. The way you two move around each other, like... Like there's some thread connecting you. You anchor each other. It makes me feel like throwing up over you both.”

Blaine finally smiled, catching the wink she threw in his direction to make sure he knew she was joking. “I just can't wait to marry him,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Fixing him with one last gaze before turning to the customer who had entered the coffee shop with a tinkle of the bells above the door, Lori spoke softly. “Then ask him.”

*

“I just can't wait to marry him,” Kurt finished.

“You know, Toby was exactly the same,” Andrew replied, a small and genuine smile playing around his lips as he brushed across the ring on his finger. The sight of it made Kurt's heart ache just a little. “He spent an entire _month_ doing all these things for me, big and small.”

“Like what?” Kurt asked, intrigued. Despite their numerous dinners spent together as a foursome, he still didn't know the couple all that well.

Andrew chuckled lightly; the first thing that had even come close to a laugh that day. “Breakfast in bed, taking me to my favorite places around Minneapolis, flowers, surprise coffees at work... But he was jumpy and distracted all the time, like he had something on the tip of his tongue but just couldn't get the words out. It was bugging me so damn much that I ended up starting a fight with him for the stupidest reason; I can't even remember why. It made sense at the time. Of course, I had no idea that he'd been trying to propose all month and felt like he had to make it perfect for me. Jesus, he could have asked me in the middle of a parking lot or behind a 7-Eleven and I would have said yes.”

Kurt smiled, setting down the cup of tea that had long since grown cold. “How did he ask you, in the end?”

Andrew paused for a long moment. “Behind a fucking 7-Eleven!” he burst out, laughter finally chasing away the haunted look in his eyes.

“How does that even happen?” Kurt asked, failing the suppress the giggles climbing his throat.

“I should have mentioned that we were in the car when we started fighting,” Andrew explained. “We'd stopped to get gas and I just needed to be away from him for a while, so I went across the street to the 7-Eleven. Next thing I know, he's dragging me behind it for round forty-fucking-six, screaming about how I'm so damn hard to propose to. So I told him that he could ask me right there and I'd still say yes, and then he just went down on one knee and said, 'so will you fucking marry me or not?'”

“And you said yes,” Kurt supplied, eyeing the engagement ring Andrew wore with not a little envy.

“Well. I kicked him for being such an asshole, and then I said yes.”

Kurt snorted and pulled his jacket a little tighter as a chill swept past them. “I always thought that it mattered. How he asked me,” he clarified, clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. “It still does. I've always wanted a big, romantic Central Park proposal. But that's all abstract. When I think about what's real... When I think about Blaine, all I want is to marry him.”

“You'll get there,” Andrew reassured him, placing a hand over his. “But maybe a nudge or two wouldn't hurt.”

Kurt smiled, squeezing his hand for a comfortable second. It was nice to have friends outside of work that were _here_ ; friends with whom he could arrange to meet for lunch, or bump into on a street corner and chat to for fifteen minutes on the way home. He liked his colleagues well enough, but they could tend to be more self-involved than Kurt on his worst days. As for his friends from McKinley, there was only so much time he could stand to be on his cell or Skype, especially after coming home from a long day of constantly ringing phones and memo after memo after memo.

A sudden crash from somewhere inside the house pulled Kurt from his thoughts, and he and Andrew raced inside, fearing the worst.

“Toby? Sweetheart?” Andrew called softly, spinning around at the answering sob.

Toby sat against the soot-streaked back of the couch, knees drawn up to his chest and shaking violently. Andrew immediately went to him, wrapping Toby in his arms and rocking him gently as Kurt stood awkwardly in the scorched doorway.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked.

Andrew shook his head, pressing a kiss into his fiance's hair, holding him tighter as he sobbed harder. “Thank you, though,” he said over his shoulder.

Kurt gestured behind him to the open and Andrew nodded once, then twice as Kurt motioned to call him if they did need anything. He turned and headed for the door, not wanting to intrude a moment longer. He was halfway down the street when his phone buzzed in his pocket, and he felt warm for the first time all day when he saw Blaine's face lighting up the screen.

“Hey,” he breathed.

“Hey, are you still there?”

“Just left. Toby kind of broke down and I just... I didn't want to intrude. We salvaged what we could, but...” Kurt trailed off, trying to swallow against the lump in his throat, overcome with a wave of sadness now that he no longer had to hold himself together for anyone. “Everything's just gone, Blaine.”

“Hey, shh, it's okay,” Blaine soothed. “Look, I'm almost done so get a cab over here and we'll go home and make a huge pizza. Low-fat cheese and everything.”

Kurt smiled in spite of himself. “Okay. Okay, I'll be there soon.”

“I love you.”

“I love you more.”

*

“Dinner's almost ready,” Blaine called, pausing midway through setting the table when there was no answer. Quietly, he approached the bedroom door that had been left slightly ajar, and smiled a little when he saw Kurt fast asleep on top of the covers. His chest was rising and falling steadily, and he looked at peace for the first time since he'd opened his eyes that morning and leaned across to press his face into Blaine's neck.

Quickly, he returned to the kitchen and switched off the timer on the microwave before it had a chance to go off. He took the pizza from the oven and covered it, then blew out the candles he'd set along the edge of the island.

After covering Kurt with the thick blanket artfully folded at the foot of the bed, Blaine slid underneath and burrowed into Kurt's warmth, breathing him in for a quiet moment.

“ _I'm gonna pick up the pieces and build a lego house, and if things go wrong we can knock it down_ ,” he sang softly, barely above a whisper. Kurt smiled as he stirred awake, slowly turning over to face Blaine. “ _My three words have two meanings, there's one thing on my mind; it's all for you._ ”

Kurt opened his eyes, finding the rhythm of the song, and he continued the song in a sleep-choked voice. “ _And it's dark in a cold December, but I've got you to keep me warm. If you're broken I will mend you, and I'll keep you sheltered from the storm that's raging on now._ ”

Blaine wrapped his fingers around Kurt's wrist where it lay between them, pressing their foreheads together and harmonizing easily into the chorus of the song that had been the score of their year apart.

“ _I'm outta touch, I'm outta luck, I'll pick you up when you're getting down,_ ” they sang together, “ _and out of all these things I've done, I think I love you better now. I'm outta sight, I'm outta mind, I'll do it all for you in time, and out of all these things I've done, I think I love you better now._ ”

Kurt blinked sleepily as Blaine brushed his thumb across the soft skin of his cheek. “Mmm... is it time for dinner?”

Blaine shook his head. “Time for sleep, baby. Big day tomorrow.”

Deep in his core, next to the piece of Kurt's heart he kept nestled against his own, he could feel it—tomorrow was the day that their lives were both going to change forever. Kurt's breathing evened out once more and Blaine let himself sink further into the soft pillow, his mind idly chasing the threads of their song as the day finally caught up with him. He happily welcomed sleep's embrace, a melody forming in his mind and following him down into his dreams.

* * *

**Part Seven: You're the Fortune I've Been Waiting to Find**  
 _Sunday 15 January, 2017_

_Something was happening to someone he hadn't known for very long. He couldn't even remember what they looked like; the sound of their voice; the way they held themselves. But he knew that something was going on, something that this person wouldn't speak of to anyone else. It made Blaine hurt in a way that he hadn't for a long time—not since before arriving at Dalton. This person was scared, and felt alone in the world._

_He pulled his phone from his pocket, typing out one simple word that conveyed everything he wanted to say. Barely having the time to make it to his next class, Blaine decided to be concise and sum up everything he wanted to say with one word: Courage._

_When it came time to hit 'Send', however, he didn't recognize a single one of the numbers stored in his Contacts. Who was the message meant for?_

_**Bzzz! Bzzz!** If I could find a way to see this straight, I'd run away—_

_That fucking song._ Blaine sat up and switched it off as hastily as he could; he couldn't even remember choosing it from the playlist when he'd set the alarm an hour previously with raw and aching fingers, new blisters forming beneath old calluses that had broken the strings of his guitar.

The apartment was completely quiet. There were no missed calls or messages on his phone; he knew without even having to look. Kurt hadn't answered any of his calls or texts since he'd left. Was this what life would be like without him? All-encompassing, suffocating, deafening silence that chewed its way inside him and lay like a lead weight deep in his very soul?

Bitterly sad and entirely alone, Blaine flopped backwards on the bed, promptly hitting his head against the headboard.

“Ow, fuck!” he shouted, much louder than was necessary. He squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his fists and unfurling them one finger at a time to a count of ten.

_“Fuck you, Blaine.”_

The words echoed in the whorls of his ears and he rubbed at the back of his head as he curled up on Kurt's side of the bed, knees drawn up and pulling Kurt's pillow close. How had today gone so absolutely, terribly wrong?

It must have started, he supposed, the moment they stepped out of their building and onto the street. Blaine was a few steps ahead of Kurt, who had briefly stopped to talk to the doorman. He heard the rumbling of a large engine, and in the next moment found himself soaked to the skin where the speeding truck had driven straight through a puddle that he could quite comfortably have bathed in.

Strike one.

Of course. Of course it had to be that day. Of course it had to be that particular dry-clean-only suit. And of course, Kurt had to be snickering into his gloved hand while trying to look concerned and entirely serious. Blaine sighed heavily, the shock of cold settling somewhere in his bones, and returned to their apartment to change into something slightly less perfect.

Then, he mused bitterly, the next thing to go wrong would—of course—be that he would spill coffee down his pristine white shirt. Not only that, but that it would be as a result of burning the roof of his mouth on a large gulp of his scalding medium drip. Whilst standing outside Tiffany's, holding a bacon and egg croissant from the Macaron Cafe. Which he dropped.

Kurt had simply handed him his own croissant and set about trying to fix Blaine's jacket so that the stain wouldn't show, eventually settling on draping his scarf around Blaine's neck, but Blaine could still feel the stain spreading and the scent of arabica seeping into his skin.

Strike two.

Blaine rubbed his hand over his chest, the still slightly reddened skin tingling unpleasantly.

According to Murphy's Law, it would certainly follow that the winds that had been lying mostly dormant for the week had kicked up with such ferocity that the private helicopter tour over Manhattan for which Blaine had tickets would be canceled. Somehow, there would be no cabs waiting around outside the Downtown Manhattan Heliport and they would be forced to take the subway back into the heart of the city; a staple of New York living to which neither of them had ever particularly warmed.

All of this, Blaine could deal with. He could deal with icy showers and coffee burns and high winds. Because the way Kurt kept glancing at him through his eyelashes—hesitant, expectant, like he was waiting for something—was making Blaine more sure than ever that despite everything, today was the day.

After a relatively pain-free walk around the city, falling in love with the cacophony of drivers swearing and honking their horns harmonized with a backdrop of multi-ethnic street vendors all over again, they shared a quiet and intimate lunch at Pastis. The day began to look up, and even seemed worth it at the expression on Kurt's face when they turned onto West 51st Street and arrived outside the Gershwin Theatre in plenty of time for the afternoon performance of _Wicked_.

But there was still something off. The way Kurt twisted his program between his fingers, the way he was so transfixed on the stage and seemed to almost forget that Blaine was even there until intermission, all of which he spent talking about the performance. It was that damning passion that Blaine had fallen in love with, but right then it seemed like an impenetrable barrier.

Maybe he wasn't so good at plans after all.

When they finally returned to their apartment, Blaine all but collapsed onto the couch, sad and frustrated with himself. It was the end of the week—three weeks to the day since he had asked permission—and he still hadn't found that perfect moment. Not for the first time, he wondered why finding this supposed magical moment was so important to him. But all he had to do was lose himself again in the memory of Kurt singing Blackbird and all of his stupid, illogical reasoning came back to him with full force.

_“Kurt, there is a moment... when you say to yourself, 'oh, there you are. I've been looking for you forever.'”_

It didn't do a thing to quell the utter frustration, though.

“And _Defying Gravity_ , I mean, she wasn't as good as Idina but really, who could be?” Kurt was gushing as he arranged and rearranged the magazines on the coffee table in a fit of nervous elation. Blaine smiled half-heartedly, and he thought to himself that maybe he should just do it right there and then. No shouting from rooftops (or, as the case may have been, a theme park ride), no romantic helicopter tour, no bells or whistles... just them.

“Are you listening?”

“Sorry,” Blaine said, shaking his head a little. 

“Seems to be a habit of yours,” Kurt muttered snippily, and Blaine drew back as Kurt stood up and paced around the coffee table.

“What do you mean?” he asked, carefully.

“You know exactly what I mean. No, wait. Actually, you don't. I forgot for a moment there,” Kurt said, his tone razor-sharp.

“Kurt, just stop. Please. Stop. There's something that I need to—”

“Why are you ruining this?” Kurt suddenly interrupted, perplexing him completely. “In spite of all the little mishaps, we just had the perfect New York date and you're acting like a complete _asshole_ right now.”

“I'm acting like an asshole,” Blaine repeated incredulously, feeling that confusing, knee-jerk reaction in his gut and sighing heavily. “Look, can we just... Can we just go for a walk, or something?”

“No, Blaine, we can't. Because it's just going to be another excuse for you to avoid doing what you've been avoiding doing all week, let alone since fucking _November_ ,” Kurt retorted.

“And what exactly is that?”

“Proposing to me, that's what! Asking me to marry you!”

Blaine stopped short, taken entirely aback. _He knows?_

“I knew it. I fucking _knew_ it. You weren't listening.”

“I wasn't listening? Kurt, I don't understand, what—“

“The Empire State Building, Blaine!” Kurt interrupted, throwing up his hands. “The night after we moved into our apartment, we went to the Empire State Building and we were standing at the top and I was saying to you that when they change the laws back home that you should ask me to marry you and you just hummed into my ear and I thought you were fucking _agreeing_ with me! And when I mentioned it to you on Coney Island you got that look in your eyes, that confused puppy-dog look and I just knew you had no idea what I was talking about!”

Blaine was silent, his guilt all-consuming.

“And you had so many fucking _chances_ this week, Blaine! What about this afternoon, after _Wicked_? Or at the Harlem Market?” Kurt barreled on, forcing his sleeve up to his elbow and pointing to the middle symbol, only a little faded. “It means readiness! And yours means commitment! What clearer sign could there be?”

“I tried to propose to you on Coney Island, Kurt!” Blaine yelled, standing up and crowding himself into Kurt's personal space. “When we were on the Sling Shot, and don't even get me started on how you passive-aggressively even let me onto that thing because that's a whole other issue. But I _tried_ to propose to you and you didn't hear me!”

“You—you did?”

“Yeah, I did. I've been trying to work up the nerve to propose to you all day—no, scratch that, all fucking week. Everything I've done for you this week, every single thing, has been me _trying_ to propose to you. And the fact that you're even standing there thinking that I need some conversation to dictate the rest of our lives is just, it's amazing to me,” Blaine continued, feeling himself getting hotter and angrier; closer to saying something he was going to regret for a long time. “I've wanted to marry you for so _long_ , Kurt, but right now I can't think of a single reason why.”

And there it was. The thing he was going to regret.

There was a single beat of silence, the expression on Kurt's face rapidly transitioning from shock to outrage to utter defiance. “You know what? Neither do I. Fuck you, Blaine,” he spat, turning on his heel and sweeping up his keys from the end table. The front door slammed so hard behind him that it rattled in its frame.

Strike three: you're out.

Immediately, Blaine crossed the room and grabbed the handle with a mind to wrench open the door and demand that Kurt come back, but he felt the fight draining from him like a fire dying inside, and he slid to the floor in a mess.

Thinking back on it, Blaine couldn't really recollect how long he'd spent sitting behind the door. It was as if he'd been waiting for Kurt to come breezing back into the apartment like nothing had even happened. Only he hadn't.

Eventually, Blaine had dragged himself up from the floor and shuffled into the office. He paced around the room with his guitar haphazardly slung across his body, picking out melodies on the strings before finally setting at the desk and writing them down. Before he knew what was happening, he was scribbling down lyrics almost feverishly, like they would forever disappear from his mind unless he made them appear on the page in the same instant they came stumbling into his consciousness.

He played his guitar harshly, technique be damned, and sang until his throat was raw. Then he sang some more, until the walls themselves were composed of flats and sharps and the strings of his guitar were stretching and snapping under his bleeding fingers and it wasn't enough, wasn't anywhere close to enough because Kurt had walked out and after three unread emails, eleven unanswered texts and thirty-four rejected calls, he didn't even know if he would come back.

And then, as if the day wasn't already terrible enough in its own right, he finally found his lucky bow tie while digging out a spare set of guitar strings. It was the bow tie that Kurt had bought for him their first Christmas as a couple. He no longer wore it, but had still carried it with him during every important moment in his life. Blaine hadn't seen it since before they moved into the apartment, and had been convinced that he'd lost it—a fact he'd carefully concealed from Kurt. Yet there it was, mixed in with a box of guitar strings, plectrums and blank sheet music. He had crumpled it in his hand, breathing deeply, and it hung limply between his fingertips as he trailed into their bedroom and let himself fall into bed, too tired to do anything except sleep.

Three hours later and their bed was still cold; a stark, thousand-thread-count wasteland as Blaine found himself still alone, the apartment still empty. His mind in fragments, head and heart both aching and with the bow tie clutched tightly to his chest, he let himself drift once more into the beckoning arms of sleep.

*

Kurt's feet hurt, and he never thought he'd find himself cursing Marc Jacobs' very existence and wishing so vehemently for a pair of Caterpillar boots, or even Converse. He'd been walking for hours, almost jogging as the outrage worked its way out of his system and into the gray paving slabs of every sidewalk. Dark, thick clouds gathered overhead, and he heard two falafel vendors groaning over the scratchy sounds of a portable radio broadcasting snow.

Rounding the next corner, he gratefully made his way inside the nearest coffee shop, shivering in the sudden burst of warmth that blasted from the heater over the door.

_Fuck you, Blaine._

Kurt closed his eyes, as if to block out the crestfallen expression on Blaine's face but it was right there in his mind's eye, and wasn't going away any time soon.

The coffee shop was quiet, and when he took his grande non-fat mocha from the barista, he found a table in the back. He slumped into his seat, resting one ankle on the opposite thigh, and rubbed absently at the inside of his aching foot.

_He was standing on the observation deck of the Empire State Building, and felt like he was flying as he looked out at the city lit up from below the night sky, almost a reflection of the stars that were already long burnt-out. He stood with his nose almost pressed against the glass, and Blaine moved to stand behind him, arms wrapping around his waist and pulling him in tightly, a kind of close that was close to enough._

_“I've been thinking,” Kurt murmured as Blaine's whisper of breath danced over his shoulder._

_“About what?”_

_“About Ohio. I think that—that when they change the laws back home, we should get married.”_

_It didn't even take a second for the of hum his agreement into his ear; it was the perfect plan, and Blaine told him as much._

_“I want to ask you, though,” he continued, nosing over Kurt's neck. “I want to see the look in your eyes when I ask you to be mine.”_

_“I'll always be yours.”_

Kurt laughed bitterly at the memory that belonged only to him, and checked his phone for the umpteenth time in the last ten minutes. His phone had been silent for hours, now. Maybe Blaine had left. Maybe Kurt would return home to find his half of the closet empty, every second drawer cleared out, the office missing the guitars and the ukulele and the inexplicable trombone.

“Excuse me, everyone?”

Kurt's attention shifted to the dark-haired man now standing towards the front of the coffee shop, loudly asking for everyone's attention. The woman with whom he was sitting was looking up at him with wide eyes, a faint blush creeping up her neck as he took her hand with a wide smile.

“Um, I'm sorry to disturb you all, but there's a question I'd like to ask of this beautiful woman right here,” he continued, taking her hand. “You see, three years ago today, we met at this very coffee shop. And for some reason I still can't figure out, she agreed to go on a date with me.”

Tearfully, the woman laughed, and Kurt smiled despite himself.

“We've had our ups and downs like any couple, but I know in my heart that she's the only one for me,” the man said, taking a step forward and dropping to one knee. The woman placed a hand over her heart, letting out a soft gasp as the man produced a ring. “Heather Luccesi, will you marry me? Will you be mine?”

“I'll always be yours,” Heather laughed, before nodding and leaning forward to kiss her fiancé. Kurt's heart stuttered in his chest and for a second, for a single suspended moment, he saw himself in her place. He saw Blaine kneeling in front of him, eyes full of love and hope and promise. Everything he'd ever wanted, wrapped in amber.

_I'll always be yours._

Kurt smiled, his coffee long forgotten. He stood, made his way through the tables and chairs to briefly congratulate the couple, and left the café. As soon as he felt cement beneath his feet, he started running.

* * *

**Part Eight: A Question With Only One Answer**  
 _Monday 16 January, 2017_

_Blaine descended the staircase quickly, caught up in the throng of his classmates as they all rushed to the affectionately-dubbed 'Warbler Studio'. Word of an impromptu Warblers performance always spread quickly, and he was almost late. He could picture Wes' disapproving gaze, shaking his head and turning over the gavel in his hands._

_“Blaine.”_

_A whisper. A hand on his shoulder._

_Blaine turned around, expecting a flash of blue-green, though he didn't know why._

_The hand had disappeared, and he found himself inexplicably alone._

“Baby, wake up.”

Blaine opened his puffy eyes, still raw, and there it was. That flash of blue-green, tempered with a stormy gray. This was it. This was the right time.

“You came back,” Blaine rasped, fingers closing over Kurt's just to make sure that he was real.

“How about that walk?” Kurt asked, his voice laced with apology. Blaine thumbed across his bare ring finger and smiled, all traces of their fight forgotten. It no longer mattered; it was past midnight, there was snow falling in thick, heavy flakes outside the window and he felt more exhausted than Kurt looked but this was the moment he'd been waiting for. This was the completely inconvenient, stupidly perfect, life-changing moment that he'd been waiting upon to hit him; a wrecking ball in all its blunt and unmistakable force.

“Wear something thick. You're allowed three layers, at most,” he instructed playfully as he stood up from the bed. Kurt smiled in return, and pressed a soft kiss to his lips before disappearing into the living room, and Blaine could hear the jingle of keys dropping into a coat pocket. He crossed the room to the dresser, and picked up his own coat from the back of the plush, flock-print chair. As he shrugged it on, he noticed Kurt's journal open at the first page of the New York Bucket List, and saw that number one—the Perfect Date—was neatly crossed out. Underneath it was a revised entry for the number one spot.

_01\. Be proposed to in Central Park._

Blaine paused for a moment that seemed endless. Then the sound of Kurt humming as he waited in the hallway pulled him from his daze, and he knew exactly what to do. He left the bedroom, made his way into the office and re-strung his guitar, quickly tuning it by ear and with years of practiced efficiency.

“Babe? You ready to go?” Kurt asked, poking his head around the door.

Blaine stood up and nodded as he settled the guitar across his body and swung it around so that it rested against his back. “Let's go.”

*

Hand in hand, they walked quickly through Central Park, Blaine almost pulling Kurt along. They paused for a second at the precipice of Bow Bridge, taking in the breathtaking world of unsullied white that surrounded them. Flakes settled across Kurt's shoulders and in his hair, and Blaine thought that he'd probably never looked so beautiful. He kissed him, just to preserve every sensation of the moment that he could, before pulling gently on Kurt's hand to lead him deeper into the park.

When they finally reached Bethesda Fountain, Blaine turned to face Kurt. The snow cast an ethereal light all around them; the angel in the center watched over them; footprints lead back the way they'd come and there was nothing ahead of them but a blanket of pure white. This was it.

In one smooth motion, he swung his guitar around his body and settled it across his middle, his sore fingers easily finding the chords of the song that had come tearing out of him that afternoon. It was rough and so far from perfect, but it was him.

“Kurt, I have tried to do this so many ways,” Blaine began, and Kurt wrapped his arms tighter around himself, looking simultaneously guilty and anticipative. “But nothing has worked. And I thought it was me; that there was something wrong and it had me worried, you know, that this wasn't... Wasn't going to work. But now I know that I could only ever have done this here, in this place, on this night.”

“Blaine.” The whisper was almost inaudible, a white puff of breath its only betrayal.

“There are so many things I love about you. I love how strong and beautiful and unstoppable you are. You move me, Kurt. You still do, and it amazes me. The way you know I've had a bad dream before even I do. The way you kiss me, like it's the first kiss and the last kiss all at once. The way you put your heart and soul into everything. The way you touch me—“ Blaine broke off, taking a deep and bracing breath. “Like I'm some work of art. The way you look past everything and just see me. How you can take me apart and put me back together in a better version of myself. I don't want to go another day without being able to call you anything less than my own.

“I know that I don't remember the conversation we had at the Empire, but there's another conversation I do remember,” Blaine continued, beginning to strum the opening bars of the song. “After my surgery, you told me that I was your white knight, and I said you were my oak tree. You've always been so strong and rooted. You've been my anchor, my reason to keep going. After you left earlier, I wrote something for you.”

Kurt's eyelashes sparkled with unshed tears, and he covered his mouth with his hand.

 _“I've been trying to find the words to say_  
Things I've long known to be true  
In so many ways over so many days  
Walking an incline with stones in my shoes,” Blaine sang, that telltale sting already clamoring at the corners of his eyes.

_“The little things that you do every day_  
Stealing the thoughts from my mind a little  
Taking the breath from my lungs far away  
A world far away where you are the middle 

_You once said that I'm your white knight_  
And I said that you must be my oak tree  
So here in the dark, dark night  
Tell me that you'll always love me 

_Plucking the strings of my heart 'til they break_  
Getting easier and harder to breathe  
All the futures and worlds that I create  
Seem too small for you and I'm on my knees.” 

Slowly, Blaine sank to one knee in the snow, all the while strumming the guitar and not even daring to blink.

_“Asking that if I'm your white knight_  
Then will you please be my oak tree  
And here in the dark, dark night  
Just tell me you'll always love me.” 

Beating out a rhythm on the guitar with one hand, he spoke the next few lines.

“ _Baby, it's cold out here_ ,” he said, and Kurt laughed through the tears that had begun to fall in earnest, leaving glittering trails along his skin. “ _This place that only we know. You're my missing puzzle piece. We might make a wrong turn or two. The world is quiet, there's a question to ask. No more solos, not anymore, and you'll always be perfect to me: my blackbird, my oak tree._ ”

After a beat of absolute silence, Blaine resumed the song.

_“So if you'll let me be your white knight_  
Forever you'll be my oak tree  
And here in the middle of the night  
Tell me you'll always love me  
Tell me you'll always love me  
Please tell me that you'll marry me.” 

Blaine finished the song with one last strum of the guitar, and after a heady, concentrated moment, pulled that little black box from his pocket. He turned it over in his hands once, twice, three times, before feeling the cold pads of Kurt's fingertips against his cheek.

“Courage,” Kurt whispered. There it was. The reason, _his_ reason. Everything faded; the damp cold sinking into his very bones, the light breeze that blew snowflakes into his eyes, the far-off calling of a past he could finally lay down to rest.

“Kurt Elizabeth Hummel,” he began, voice strong and full of purpose as he opened the box and held it up in front of him, “will you marry me?”

Kurt's eyes caught upon the ring, moonlight picking out the diamonds, before returning to Blaine's. Wordlessly, he sank to his knees and pulled Blaine close. Seconds that felt like the definition of infinity passed.

“Yes,” Kurt whispered, warm against his ear. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.”

The moment was quiet; a universe self-contained and entirely theirs. The sun was somewhere on the other side of the earth; the stars were still burning; the planets were still blazing trails through the darkness. The world was still turning, yet in that huge and tiny moment, it belonged to Kurt Hummel and Blaine Anderson.

* * *

_Blaine had had no idea that one person could tolerate this much pain. Those three guys were gone; they had left when they had been satisfied by the sheer amount of bruises they had inflicted and blood they had spilled. Jason was out cold, lying on his side and all Blaine could see of him was the back of his tuxedo jacket, smeared with dirt and chunks of gravel still clinging to it._

_He could barely move, barely breathe for the pain. His eyes were puffy, the left swollen completely shut and the right already halfway there. His limited vision was beginning to cloud around the edges and it would be easy, so easy to give in and let the darkness take him._

_A presence by his side. A hand on his shoulder. Warm, gentle fingertips bringing him back to himself, and somehow dulling the aches and pains with which his entire body was riddled._

_“What's your name?” The voice was soft; lilting and musical._

_“Blaine. Blaine Anderson.”_

_The presence was suddenly closer, enveloping him in a cocoon of something that felt like safety._

_“Are you an angel?”_

_A laugh, full of warmth and affection._

_“No. What I am is here to tell you that everything is going to be okay.”_

_“Can you stay with me? Please, just—just don't leave me.”_

_“I have to. But we'll see each other again. You'll find me, Blaine.”_

_Blaine reached out blindly, and pain flared in his side so sharply that his tenuous grip on consciousness grew a little thinner._

_“Where will I find you?”_

_A long pause, and the presence faded a little. “Look for candles and blackbirds.”_

_Something like lips brushed along his temple, and a feeling of absolute peace overcame him._

_“Who are you?”_

_“I'm Kurt.”_

_The pain was fading, and he could no longer tell where the line of his consciousness ended. He forced his eyes open as much as he could bear._

_A flash of blue-gray. A streak of chestnut._

_“Oh, there you are. I've been looking for you forever.”_

_The dream collapsed, then. Morphed, changed, transformed into something else. Flashes, glimpses, snapshots of something new and entirely different yet somehow completely recognizable._

_Water, endless expanses of water. A piano bar. Lemon squares. A party; a contract. A fight; an alley. A reconciliation. A show. Flashing lights. Another party bus? No, a club. A pill. Two pills. Fizzing, swirling, patterns in the air. A tattoo; three letters. Two rings. Cherry blossoms. Polaroids, frames, a catalog, a catwalk. A weekend away. A home. Gardens and empty rooms. An airplane. Platinum. Two tiny, fragile somethings. Research. An embrace. A date; an interrogation. A dance. A goodbye._

_A porch; a swing; a glass of wine; a book._

_Always: Kurt._


	12. Miles From Where You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** This chapter PG-13  
>  **Spoilers:** None.  
>  **Disclaimer:** I paint the pictures; I just borrow the names.  
>  **Author's Note:** Songs featured: _[Northern Wind](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uwy_8O_3mWk)_ by City and Color, and _[Set The Fire To The Third Bar](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bfa9yxCpWoA&ob=av3e)_ by Snow Patrol, featuring Martha Wainwright (thanks to the lovely Danii for the first song suggestion, and my alpha beta Rachie for the second). If you're wondering, the languages in which Blaine and Kurt say “I love you” include Basque, Dutch, Filipino, French, German, Italian, Latin, Polish, Romanian and Spanish (I apologise for any incorrect translations and will gladly accept corrections!). I mentioned it back in chapter eight, but I have this headcanon where Blaine says “I love you” to Kurt in Filipino one day, and they proceed to learn how to say it in various different languages. I'm glad it's something I got to play with in this chapter. Thank you all for continuing to read!

**Chapter Twelve - Miles From Where You Are**  
 _Saturday 27 August, 2044_

Kurt was silent for a very, very long time. Which was worrying in and of itself, and something tightened in Blaine's chest as he regarded his husband through nervous eyes.

“Honey?”

“Just so I understand,” he said slowly, fingers stilling against the photograph of them both kneeling in the snow beside Bethesda Fountain (the picture had shown up some months later in a photography periodical, asking for the people pictured to come forward), “you're telling me that the reason it took you so long to propose wasn't because you were waiting for the laws to change—“

“We've established that,” Blaine cut across him.

“—it was that you lost your lucky bow tie,” Kurt finished with a sardonic look.

“No. Not entirely. I just—First, I was waiting for us to finish college. Then I was waiting until I found the perfect ring. Then I was waiting to ask your dad's permission, and then I spent a whole week trying to propose to you. When I found that bow tie... I'm not saying there's any link there, I just... I'm not explaining this very well,” Blaine finished, taking off his glasses and pinching between his eyes.

“Hey, hey,” Kurt said, quietly, pulling Blaine's hands away from his face. “I understand. I know you, Blaine Hummel-Anderson. That week—I wasn't lying when I told Andrew that it was amazing and also kind of terrible. But we got there in the end, and the way you proposed to me... It really couldn't have been any more perfect. And I finally understood what Santana meant when she said you were like a... What was it? A 'freaking Disney prince, he's so shiny and perfect'.”

Blaine laughed at that. “In between comments about the bow ties and helmet hair?” he asked, grinning fondly at Kurt's answering nod.

“You know, we could just stop here,” Kurt said softly. “It would be a pretty perfect ending, don't you think?”

“Just like in the movies?” Blaine asked with a smile, just as he always did.

“Just like in the movies,” Kurt agreed, leaning over to kiss his husband. “But there aren't any happy endings in life, only—“

“Only happy beginnings,” Blaine finished for him.

“And anyway, I like re-reading your letters. Waxing lyrical about how much you miss me, how you see my smile around every corner...”

“Oh _god_ , don't remind me,” Blaine groaned, covering his face with his hands.

“In fact,” Kurt announced, turning the page and pulling out the very first letter, “I think it's the very first one where you start comparing the ocean to my eyes. Yep, here we go...”

* * *

_February 14th, 2017_

_**Beep-beep, beep-beep**  
One new message from: Kurt ♥_

**Kurt (9:24am)** – Happy Valentine's, sailor. Thank you for the roses. I miss you. Je t'aime x  
 **Blaine (6:47pm)** – Happy Valentine's, baby! You're welcome. I miss you too. Mahal kita xx

*

Dear Kurt,

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

The ocean out here reminds me of your eyes, you know. In the morning it's blues and greens just like your eyes are when you get out of the shower. And in the evenings there's a lot of gray, like when you've been working for too long and you're tired. It feels like I'm always surrounded by you. It's nice. Especially when I didn't have any room in my suitcases for anything of yours...

Can I just take a moment, here? I feel like I'm in the middle of a giant culture shock. I had no idea that I would be one of the only Americans on the entire staff. I'm not kidding, Kurt, there's like ten of us. Everyone speaks English, but sometimes we could really use an interpreter. And hardly anyone just gets how awesome Disney is. They're here for work; I'm here because it's Disney. It's been... hard. Worth it, but hard.

Our room is tiny. And when I say tiny, take what you're picturing and quarter it. That's the size of our room. When you open the door, it literally takes up half the space. The best part is that we're right underneath the luggage loading area, so as soon as it hits 5a.m. and they start offloading the passengers' luggage, the walls shake.

Ugh, I'm sorry. I promised I wouldn't do this. It's just... I'm having a hard time adjusting not only to the fact that this is kind of less great than I thought it would be, but that I'm going through all of it without you to come home to. I'm rooming with a guy called Carlos; he's kind of quiet around the crew but you should see him when he's on stage. He just comes alive; it's kind of exhilarating to watch. Not a patch on you, though, little blackbird.

On a positive note, I think the theme nights are my favorite. I'm told they're different on every ship; here on the Fantasy we have a 50s night with leather jackets, cuffed jeans and jive dancing, and a 70s night with afro wigs, bell-bottoms and disco. I feel like John Travolta circa Grease and Saturday Night Fever; it's kind of awesome. I'm taking as many pictures as I can to show you when I get back.

I'm sorry that this letter is short and kind of all over the place. I feel like my brain is just inside out right now with all of the information I've had to take in over the past couple weeks. And I'm homesick, and I miss you so much. Tell me all about what's going on at home. I hope you're going out with your friends from work and seeing Toby and Andrew. How are their wedding plans coming along? And has Rachel been around lately? More than anything, I guess I just want to know that you're not sitting around the apartment feeling lonely (I know that I would be). If you are, just do something wild. Go out and get hammered, or invite Jeff and Stuart over for dinner (because you know how that'll go) or... I don't know, get a cat. Kurt, you should totally get a cat. And name him Chairman Miaow.

Happy Valentine's Day, fiance.

Ti amo,  
Candle

* * *

_February 22nd, 2017_

Dear Blaine,

All days are nights to see till I see thee/And nights bright days when dreams do show thee to me.

I hope you got the lemon squares in time, and thank you for the beautiful flower arrangement—all the office girls are jealous! You think of everything, don't you? Remember how you once told me you were no good at romance?

Baby, I'm so sorry that it hasn't lived up to everything you were expecting and hoping for. But you've only been there two weeks (three, at the time of writing this); I think it can only get better. You said yourself that you felt overloaded with information and that you were homesick, and it will take a while to get past that. And in response to your ever-so-subtle comment, I've sent you a pillowcase of mine along with one of my favorite McQueen scarves. Take care of it. It's vintage. I sent your lucky bow tie, too. Thought you might need it.

Your training sounds more intense than Cheerios practice! I'm hoping by now that it's mostly over, and you're getting a chance to just do your job? And baby, please don't apologize for sounding off about it. That's what I'm here for.

I want pictures of you in white bell-bottoms! Well, Cooper wants them. I suspect for blackmail purposes. Maybe you can just conveniently forget to send me any, and 'accidentally' delete any that have already been taken. Once I've seen them, of course.

Work has been insane, as usual. Stephanie, in a rare moment of channeling Miranda Priestly, decided she wanted to change an entire ten-page Oscar de la Renta feature to Carolina Herrera's new collection. It cost the magazine about... I can't even talk about it. Oscar is not happy, and we'll be lucky if this doesn't come back to bite us all in the ass. In happier news, the effervescent Ms. Westwood herself is throwing a masquerade ball in honor of The Ethical Fashion Programme. The exciting part? She's come to Stephanie in search of some new talent to design the entire women's line of costumes. Apparently she wants a Moulin Rouge theme (plenty of the Bergdorf Blondes will be vying for tickets, I'm sure), which has been done to death, but that's exactly why she's in search of new talent: she wants a fresh take on it. In short, I'm thinking about putting something forward for it. I just... I wish you were here so that you could stop me talking myself out of it.

If I were to get us a cat, he would most certainly not be called Chairman Miaow, you heinous dork. He would be called McQueen, and would look exactly like the picture I've included. ...Yes, we now have a cat. His eyes kind of look like yours.

Missing and loving you from afar.

Te quiero,  
Blackbird

* * *

_February 28th, 2017_

_**Incoming chat from: Blaine A.** _

**Blaine A.:** Kurt? Is this working?  
 **Kurt H.:** Hey! Are you back at port??  
 **Blaine A.:** Almost. Will call you when docked. Just got signal back on phone. Get my letter?  
 **Kurt H.:** Sent my reply a week ago, is it still not there yet?  
 **Kurt H.:** God, we miss you.  
 **Blaine A.:** Not yet. I miss you too!  
 **Blaine A.:** Wait, 'we'?  
 **Kurt H.:** You'll see! ;) I love you, by the way.  
 **Blaine A.:** I love you too! Gotta go, break over, call you from dock!  
 **Kurt H.:** Love you, love you, love you, be safe!

* * *

_March 17th, 2017_

_**Beep-beep, beep-beep**  
One new message from: Blaine ♥_

**Blaine (11:49pm)** – I can smell you :)  
 **Kurt (11:52pm)** – That's sweet... and a little creepy.

*

Dear Kurt,

Hear my soul speak. Of the very instant that I saw you/Did my heart fly at your service. (Fearest I that these interludes shall henceforth becometh a 'thing'.)

It took forever for your package to arrive. The mail is so unreliable; understandably so, but still. I get to have so little contact with you, and it's so weird. We've barely spent a day apart since moving in together and I wake up in my tiny bunk, roll over and hit my nose on the wall instead of seeing your face. I wash my own hair in the shower (it's never looked worse, and that includes the shellacking days—please, please share your secrets with me. We're going to be husbands, you know). At least now I get to go to sleep with your smell relaxing me. The things you sent are perfect. And yes, I got the lemon squares in time. Carlos wants the recipe for his mother; apparently hers are too dry. I strongly advised him against saying anything.

We got retested on a few protocols today—the watertight doors are definitely my favorite. They're so cool. Just—BOOM. Locked. Though they did briefly make me think of Titanic. Oh god, now you're going to think of Titanic and you'll worry but I can't start this letter over again because I don't have much paper left, and—shut up, Blaine. Sorry, baby.

Happy things! They've moved me on to going on the shore excursions with the guests so that when I'm in the box, I can answer questions they have. I've been back to Grand Cayman twice already, and I'll be going back to Cozumel in a couple days. Then it all changes in June; we're switching with the Wonder after maintenance weekend so that we'll be in the Eastern Caribbean, and we'll be stopping in St Maarten, St Thomas and Castaway Cay.

The picture I've included with this letter might have confused you a little, so I'll explain it (and don't make that face; I know you always look at the pictures first). Just so we're clear, yes, that is my arm. One of the activities we host has this challenge where the guests have to race vegetables. Don't even ask; it'll take too long to explain. Anyway, so we have to go carting all of these potatoes and other vegetables from the produce supply pantry up to where we're holding the activities, and we're not allowed to use the guest elevators. Because the crew elevator is about a half-mile aft from the kitchen, we usually end up taking the stairs. In short, I have guns, Kurt. Guns. I'm going to spend my time carrying you everywhere when I get home. Though you weigh less than most of the sacks of potatoes I've been lugging around.

I've also had training on all of the sound equipment, now. Given what I studied, it was almost like a refresher course and I've been helping out the AV guys most nights when I'm not hosting. You should see all the kids when we get the mini-disco started in the evenings, Kurt. They're so bright and happy and full of energy and life and all the things they want to be. The other night this little boy called Callum came up to me after the disco finished, and you should have seen him, Kurt. He was like a little miniature version of you. Remember when your dad showed me that home video of your tea party? Imagine what you looked like, but blond. Bow-tie and everything. Adorable. So he came up to me, tugged on my sleeve and I crouched down next to him and he told me how much he loved the show and how he didn't want to go home. He'd been really quiet in the circle when all the other kids were talking about how they wanted to be zookeepers or space cowboys or ballerinas, and so I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up.

Do you know what he said? He said that he wanted to be like me. He just looked at me with these big wide eyes, and told me he wanted to sing and dance and make people happy. I didn't know what to say, so I just hugged him. It just... All the exhaustion, the long hours, the sometimes ridiculous rules and regulations we have to follow—moments like that make it all worth it.

Finally, I cannot believe you got us a cat! He's so gorgeous, Kurt. Has he settled in okay? Sleeping alright? Not making a mess or shedding everywhere? Do you think he's going to like me? I can't wait to meet him. Our little family. I'd draw a smiley face but you might think I'm lame. Oh, screw it. =)

Now put this letter down and get designing. You've got this; don't think about where it could lead, don't think about what it could mean, just remember how much you love designing and do it for the joy and sense of accomplishment. Anything else is a bonus.

I love you so much, mister.

I amare,  
Candle

* * *

_March 20th, 2017_

_**Beep-beep, beep-beep**  
One new message from: Blaine ♥_

**Blaine (07:55)** – Guess where I am!  
 **Kurt (07:56)** – Mmph. Morning. Where?  
 **Blaine (07:58)** – Cozumel! Sweating like a pig and it's only 10am here!  
 **Kurt (07:59)** – Attractive, Blaine.  
 **Blaine (08:01)** – Sorry, baby. Did I wake you? I thought you'd have been awake by now.  
 **Kurt (08:03)** – Been up half the night with McQueen, he keeps throwing up and shaking. Just got back from vet, they don't think it's serious but they're keeping him in today. I wish you were here so badly right now.  
 **Blaine (08:07)** – Oh baby, I'm so sorry. I wish I could hug you. He'll be fine, don't worry too much, okay? Go back to sleep.  
 **Kurt (08:09)** – Okay. You're right. I love you. Run from bandits and anyone sporting a poncho and/or a handlebar mustache. And Blaine?  
 **Kurt (08:21)** – Blaine? You there?

*

**Gmail – Inbox (1) – getoffmyrunway@gmail.com**

**FROM:** blainethewayfarer@gmail.com  
 **TO:** getoffmyrunway@gmail.com, **CC:** kurt_hummel@vogue.com  
 **DATE:** 03/20/2017, 11:34AM (CST)  
 **SUBJECT:** I'm Sorry!

I'm so sorry, babe! My signal dropped out. Fucking Mexico. I have to make this quick as I found some wi-fi but don't know how reliable it is.

Listen, McQueen is going to be absolutely fine, okay? It's probably a kitty cold or something like that. Remember how bad I was when I caught the flu from Jeff, back at Dalton? And how you stayed up all night with me until my fever broke? This is just like that, except that McQueen can't have chicken noodle soup and will probably take a while to appreciate how very awesome The Wiggles are when you're delirious. He's going to be fine, Kurt—how could he not be, with you for a dad?

Plus, when I told Carlos about it, he made some sort of voodoo prayer sign with his hands so I think we've got it covered.

I'll send you something of mine with the next letter, okay? Gotta go.

I love you,  
Blainers (now you know I love you)

Sent from my BlackBerry wireless device

* * *

_March 23rd, 2017_

_“You've reached Kurt and Blaine. We can't get to the phone right now, so sing your song at the beep!”_

“Baby? Baby, you there? I. Am. So. Freaking. Hungry. And I'm so _horny_ , Kurt. The last time we went this long without having sex was before we started having sex, do you realize that? We had sex more often during your first year at NYU. I can't even—and there are like, no hamburgers. There are _no hamburgers_ , Kurt! Not a single freaking hamburger. And no pasta. I ate Hungarian stew today. It was good. But I think Carlos is dosing me with something. All the fish keep staring at me. With their eyes. I miss you.”

* * *

_March 24th, 2017_

_“Y'arr, ye be reachin' Blaine Anderson, scourge of the seven seas! Cast ye message in ye bottle and pray that it be gettin' to me!”_

“Oh my god. _What_ is up with your voicemail? Does everyone who calls you hear that? What am I marrying into? I can't even remember what I was calling to say. I love you, you giant dork.”

* * *

_March 29th, 2017_

_**Beep-beep, beep-beep**  
One new text message from: Kurt ♥_

**Kurt (7:24pm)** – Wow. And I thought I liked your arms before.  
 **Blaine (9:34pm)** – :D are you still awake? In port tonight with room to myself...  
 **Kurt (9:35pm)** – Calling in two.

*

Dear Blaine,

I would not wish any companion in the world but you. (I am not afeared of these charming interludes. I would that they never endeth. They have made dork's meat of me.)

First piece of good news: McQueen is all better. Turns out he had a bad kitty cold, just like you said. Thank you for trying to calm me down that morning. I'm sorry if I brought you down. I was just so worried. But he's fine now and back to driving me crazy again! By the way, totally unrelated: we're going to need new drapes in the living room.

Secondly, Dad called last week—he and Carole are coming to New York for a week next month! Dad's got a bunch of meetings with various important people, and Carole's coming along since she loves the city so much. I've taken a few days off to spend some time with them, which was made much easier by the fact that I now have my own assistant! Well. Technically, she's Stephanie's junior assistant. But I'm basically her boss. Oh and speaking of work, I'm going to email you copies of my designs once I've finished tweaking them. I need your opinion on the corset design. I think I've come up with a new way of—well. You'll see from my diagrams.

Third, I've been working on a surprise for you. Well, for both of us really, but it's mainly for you. You can ask me for clues if you want to. I might answer.

Lastly, I'm a little worried about you. I heard from your mom a few days ago and she said you told her you'd lost a lot of weight? And after that voicemail you left—as hilarious as it was—I got a little bit anxious. I may have read some articles online. I've sent you a few things that you can keep in your room to eat when you get back in the evenings or when you're running off to those ridiculous 2am meetings you told me about. And please make sure you're drinking plenty of water—you know you get dizzy when your electrolytes are all out of whack. And don't forget to moisturize, or you'll come back all scaly.

Just... Tell me you're okay, and I'll believe you.

Maite zaitut,  
Blackbird (and McQueen)

P.S. Please don't talk about Titanic. I've sent you some more paper.

* * *

_April 2nd, 2017_

_**Beep-beep, beep-beep**  
Message delivered successfully to: Cooper_

**Kurt (16:57)** – Hey Coop, how have you been?  
 **Cooper (16:59)** – Kurt! Long time no speak. Busy, you?  
 **Kurt (17:02)** – Same! I need a favor. Can you try and get Blaine to come ashore on May 27th?  
 **Cooper (17:05)** – Sure, I'll think of something. Maybe I'll tell him I'll be there on business. Big plans?  
 **Kurt (17:07)** – A surprise, possibly. Thanks, Coop. I appreciate it!  
 **Cooper (17:08)** – Birthday sex? *winkwinknudgenudge*  
 **Kurt (17:09)** – Cooper.  
 **Cooper (17:10)** – Kurt.  
 **Kurt (17:12)** – Shut up.

*

**Gmail – Inbox (1) – blainethewayfarer@gmail.com**

**FROM:** reservations@unitedairlines.com  
 **TO:** blainethewayfarer@gmail.com  
 **DATE:** 04/02/2017, 3:56PM (CST)  
 **SUBJECT:** Flight Confirmation

Dear Mr Anderson,

Thank you for choosing to fly with United Airlines. Your itinerary is as follows:

**Outbound Journey:**  
Fri 26 May 2017, MCO (Orlando, FL) to EWR (Newark, NJ)  
Dep: 7:59pm  
Arr: 10:43pm

**Return Journey:**  
Sunday 28 May 2017, EWR (Newark, NJ) to MCO (Orlando, FL)  
Dep: 8:33pm  
Arr: 11:26pm

Enjoy your journey!

*

_**Beep-beep, beep-beep**  
One new text message from: Coop_

**Coop (7:34pm)** – B, your boy wants you on dry land for May 27th  
 **Blaine (7:57pm)** – Already got it covered! It's a surprise, so keep it on the DL. Miss you.  
 **Coop (8:04pm)** – You two make me sick.  
 **Blaine (8:07pm)** – I know :P  
 **Coop (8:08pm)** – P.S. Miss you too.

* * *

_April 17th, 2017_

Dear Kurt,

This bud of love by summer's ripening breath/May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.

Can I just start by saying again how much of a genius you are? I don't even know how you came up with a way to make Moulin Rouge into elegant and sexy haute couture. You know how incredible you are, right? It should be made into a title. Kurt the Incredible. Or Kurt the Amazing. Or Kurt the Beautiful. I can't really decide which I like best. You choose! And by the way, you've got this in the bag. I'm so proud of you, little blackbird.

About the losing weight thing. Ugh. Moms. Yes, I've lost weight but you really don't need to be worrying about me. I'm not going hungry, I promise. I should probably explain the crew mess and cafeteria, right? Okay, so I told you about how I'm one of the only Americans on crew. I think there's about ten, maybe fifteen of us now. The guys in the kitchen are a mixture of Puerto Rican and Hungarian, so you can probably guess that the food is pretty eclectic. There's a lot of broths, and there's always rice and meat dishes. I'll say it now, so you're not already starting to worry: there's always something to eat, and I'm not skipping any meals. It's the amount of running around that we all do. The weight just drops off us. You see, the ship's so big and our schedules so erratic that we're nearly always running somewhere. I permanently have a little Excel document in my pocket otherwise I don't know what I'm doing or where I'm supposed to be. And sometimes I'll work for an hour and have a half-hour break, for example, but it can take me like fifteen minutes to get back to my room or the mess, so usually I skip it or hang out at the crew pool—that's where all the cool kids hang ;) I guess what I'm trying to say is, don't worry. It's different and a shock to the system because there's really nothing American about the crew facilities, but I promise I'm okay and eating plenty. We all look out for one another; we're like a little family. It's nice. I really would kill for a burger, though. Or a Subway sandwich. Or both, at once.

Speaking of family, we had a newbie start when we were last in port. Her name's Zoe and she's rooming next door to us. You should have seen the way her eyes bugged out when I told her about this super-hot guy I know who's assistant to the Editor-in-Chief of Vogue. You've totally just got yourself a new fan; she really wants to meet you!

I can't wait to see you again, baby. Can you send me a few pictures? I mean paper copies, that I can carry around with me. I can't carry my phone when I'm on duty, and it'd be nice to feel like I've got you with me when I'm stressed out. I miss your face.

Tell me about you now, please. You didn't say much about your parents' visit on the phone the other night, did they have fun? And hey, remind me when the deadline for the design contest is—I wanna be sending extra-positive vibes to you that day.

Ich liebe dich,  
Candle

* * *

_May 12th, 2017_

_**Beep-beep, beep-beep**  
One new message from: Cooper_

**Cooper (10:14am)** – Yo K, get your butt down to port on May 26. B tells me ship docked all w/end for maintenance. You're welcome ;)  
 **Kurt (10:15am)** – That's great, thanks so much!  
 **Cooper (10:16am)** – He's going to tell you he can't get off ship. Don't fall for it, he's trying to surprise you. You're both making me reach for the puke sack.  
 **Kurt (10:19am)** – Charming, Coop. You haven't ruined my surprise too, I hope.  
 **Cooper (10:22am)** – I value my life and the Ralph Lauren shirts you use to blackmail me WAY too much to do that.  
 **Kurt (10:23am)** – I thought we agreed not to use that word.  
 **Cooper (10:26am)** – Fine. Our 'mutually beneficial arrangement' still stands. You'd make a good lawyer.  
 **Kurt (10:27am)** – Good. And I know.

*

**Vogue WebMail – Inbox (2) – kurt_hummel@vogue.com**

**FROM:** bookings@residenceinn.com  
 **TO:** kurt_hummel@vogue.com  
 **DATE:** 05/12/2017, 9:12PM (EST)  
 **SUBJECT:** Reservation Confirmation

Dear Mr Hummel,

Your reservation is confirmed as follows:

Residence Inn Cape Canaveral Cocoa Beach  
8959 Astronaut Blvd.  
Cape Canaveral, FL 32920

1 Bedroom Suite, 1 King, Sofabed  
Guests: 2

Check-in: 3:00 PM, Friday 26 May 2017  
Check-out: 12:00 PM, Sunday 28 May 2017

Thank you for choosing Residence Inn by Marriott!

*

**FROM:** reservations@airtran.com  
 **TO:** kurt_hummel@vogue.com  
 **DATE:** 05/12/2017, 9:19PM (EST)  
 **SUBJECT:** Your e-Ticket Confirmation

Dear Mr Hummel,

We are pleased to confirm your flight reservation. Your e-ticket is attached, and your itinerary is as follows:

**Outbound Journey:**  
Friday 26 May 2017, LGA (New York, NY) to MCO (Orlando, FL)  
Dep: 9:50am  
Arr: 3:55pm

**Return Journey:**  
Sunday 28 May 2017, MCO (Orlando, FL) to LGA (New York, NY)  
Dep: 7:30pm  
Arr: 10:01pm

Enjoy your flight!

*

Dear Blaine,

For where thou art, there is the world itself/And where thou art not, desolation.

Thank you for setting my mind at rest. I just... You know I worry about you. I mean, you can barely tie your shoelaces without falling over some days—can you blame me? And when I started reading those articles I kind of couldn't stop, even though they were from back in 2008 so I figured that things must have gotten better since then but what if they hadn't, and—I'm stopping.

Seeing Dad and Carole was great. They're still so in love. I'll never regret setting them up (original intentions set firmly aside). Dad had a pretty full schedule while they were here, so Carole and I mainly entertained ourselves. I treated her to the Spa at Mandarin Oriental (finally crossed it off the Bucket List!) after we grabbed lunch at Pastis... Think she needed a calming and relaxing experience after nearly running into George Clooney and entourage (literally). We all managed to get out and see the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens, though, and we caught the Upright Citizens Brigade Theater, too. I don't think I've laughed like that since before you left.

I have potentially big news. So remember how I told you on the phone one night that Stephanie didn't know that I was designing for the ball? I decided to submit my designs anonymously, just to test the water and see what kind of a reaction they got. I played it magnificently if I do say so myself; just calmly walked up to her desk with the designs in a big, brown envelope and put it in her in-tray. Not even a minute later she's in front of my desk, telling me to track down whoever designed them. Blaine! You should have seen the look on her face when I told her they were my designs. Baby, not only did she like them, but she had them messengered straight over to Westwood HQ! Do you know what this means? I could be in with a real shot at this! I haven't been able to sit still since then. It's a good thing that I've still got that surprise for you to work on (speaking of which, you haven't asked me for any clues! I'm proud of you) because if I didn't have that, I don't know what I'd do with myself.

I've got Andrew, Toby, Jeff and Stuart coming over for Game Night this week. I still haven't found us a dinner table so I'm making hors d'oeuvres and we're going to play Inappropriate Pictionary, according to Jeff. Also according to Jeff, we're going to play Twister (“we'll have the exact right amount of people, Kurt!”). Something tells me this is not going to end well.

I've sent some new pictures of McQueen—he's growing so fast! I can't wait for you to meet him. Only a few more months, that's what I keep telling myself. At least this year it's not an 'important' birthday. I'll still miss you every moment, though.

Ja ciebie,  
Blackbird

P.S. The copy of Vogue I've sent is for Zoe. Advance proof; don't breathe a word!

* * *

_May 18th, 2017_

_**Beep-beep, beep-beep**  
One new message from: Coop_

**Coop (7:25pm)** – Yo Shortbus, you can't go back to NY next weekend. Mom's coming to see you (surprise!)  
 **Blaine (9:43pm)** – What? No! She can't! I have to call her.  
 **Coop (9:47pm)** – Do you know what she'll do to me if she knows that I told? Come on B, when was the last time you saw her?  
 **Blaine (9:51pm)** – When was the last time YOU saw her, Mr Washington State?  
 **Coop (9:53pm)** – She'll be heartbroken... :(  
 **Blaine (9:55pm)** – Fine. But next time I won't be the one covering for your broken 'leg'.  
 **Coop (9:57pm)** – Bro Code infraction! You wound me.  
 **Blaine (10:01pm)** – You wound yourself. Specifically, your ass. While wrestling. With your lame lawyer friends.  
 **Coop (10:03pm)** – A broken coccyx is no laughing matter.  
 **Blaine (10:05pm)** – A broken ass is, though.

*

**Gmail – Inbox (1) – blainethewayfarer@gmail.com**

**FROM:** bookings@unitedairlines.com  
 **TO:** blainethewayfarer@gmail.com  
 **DATE:** 05/18/2017, 10:56PM (CST)  
 **SUBJECT:** Cancellation Confirmation

Dear Mr Anderson,

We are sorry to hear your plans have changed. Your flight reservation has been canceled.

Hope to see you again soon!

* * *

_Saturday 27 May, 2017_

_Journeys end in lovers meeting._

Anxiously, Kurt waited on the benches outside Terminal 8. The towering structure rose above him, plate glass windows reflecting the light of the setting sun and creating a kind of atmosphere that settled warmly in the soul. It had been quiet since the last of the disembarking passengers had vacated the area, and there would be no more until Monday morning, when the weekend's maintenance was complete. He settled a little further into the warm metal of the bench, taking the last mouthful of Diet Coke from his bottle before tossing it into a nearby trash can and closing his eyes as he felt the cold slip from his throat and spread outward.

As the first few crew members began to filter into the lobby, Kurt's heart thumped uncomfortably behind his breastbone, and once again he found himself second-guessing his choice of outfit. After much indecision once he'd checked into the hotel and changed out of his flight wear, he'd settled upon a soft pair of charcoal skinny jeans and a semi-sheer white shirt over a coordinating tank, accessorizing with a pair of dark sunglasses and the set of dog tags he was rarely without, given how much his fiance— _fiance!_ —loved them.

The trickle of crew members soon turned into a steady stream, and Kurt's feet tapped out a rapid and uneven rhythm on the concrete until he could bear it no longer and had to stand, fingers clasped together as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. Once more, he cast an appraising glance over his reflection, ultimately deciding to shrug off the anxiety and just be excited, when he caught sight of a pair of bright yellow Wayfarers and his stomach somersaulted into his mouth.

Blaine was back in his own clothes, a maroon t-shirt hanging off him and dark wash jeans slung low on his hips. His hair was longer than Kurt remembered it, and stubble lightly dusted his jawline. He was walking through the double doors flanked by a willowy Latino man and a pale blonde girl, and as he swung his holdall up over his shoulder, his sleeve caught in the strap and Kurt's mouth went dry. He took off his sunglasses, blinking in the weakening rays of sunlight, and willed Blaine to look over. Almost uncertainly, he moved a half-step forward, and then Blaine glanced across the space between them. Kurt could have laughed at his comical double-take if he wasn't so pent up from their months apart. Blaine yanked the pair of Wayfarers from his face, lips forming the consonants of Kurt's name before breaking into a brilliant smile and sprinting towards him, dropping his cases where he'd been standing.

It took forever yet no time at all, and then Blaine was wonderfully, gloriously _there_. There was a single, endless second where they both just stared at one another, and then they were kissing, frantic and desperate to be touched and felt after so long apart. Kurt pressed himself against Blaine with almost bruising force, and Blaine picked him up, wrapping Kurt's legs around his waist, all the while deepening the kiss and yearning for more, more, more.

“I love you,” Kurt whispered in the breath between kisses.

“I love you, I love you, I love you so much,” Blaine answered, punctuating each proclamation with a kiss to Kurt's cheek, eyelid, nose. “What are you _doing_ here? I thought Mom was coming.”

Kurt gracefully slid from Blaine, hands fisting in the front of his shirt at how different, how much more fragile Blaine's body felt. He'd always been solid: slim, but well-built and toned. Now, his frame was nearer to matching Kurt's own. “Cooper ran interference. I missed you,” he said, shakily. Blaine's eyes searched Kurt's for a moment before recognition flickered there.

“I must look really different, right?” he asked, Kurt nodded, biting his lip—he was _not_ going to cry, dammit.

“You're so _thin_ ,” he said, and Blaine settled his arms around Kurt's waist.

“You don't need to worry, I promise. I actually feel fantastic,” Blaine told him, and Kurt's brow raised a fraction. “I've never been in better shape. I can go all day long, now. Or all night, depending on your preference.”

After pausing for a moment, Kurt smiled, finally letting go of all the worry and the stress of the past three months. This was their weekend, and he was going to make the most of it.

“ _You have witchcraft in your lips_ ,” he said, threading his fingers through Blaine's and leaning forward to press their smiles together. Blaine thumbed over Kurt's cheekbone, barely a ghost of sensation, like he was making sure that he was real.

“Henry the Fifth, I'm impressed,” Blaine replied, leading him back towards where his friends—Carlos and Zoe, Kurt presumed—were waiting for them, both smiling like they were about to melt.

“I know my Shakespeare,” Kurt quipped.

*

“ _God_ , I've missed you,” Blaine groaned, taking another huge bite of his sandwich. Kurt gave him a pointed look. “I meant you, not the sandwich.”

“Of course,” Kurt said knowingly, picking at his salad more for show than anything else, content to simply watch Blaine.

If anyone had asked him what he thought of as the perfect way to spend his birthday... Well, it wouldn't have been in Florida, for starters. It wouldn't have involved watching his fiance plow his way through a foot-long sandwich—turkey, cheese and sweetcorn on wheat bread with Chipotle sauce—like it was more necessary to his existence than the oxygen he breathed. It also wouldn't have involved taking his fiance to get a much-needed haircut at the first place they could find that took walk-in appointments. But in practice, it wasn't so bad. In practice, while Kurt was tired and sore from a thoroughly sleepless night spent getting fully reacquainted—Blaine wasn't lying about being in the best shape of his life, ignoring the pronounced hip bones and vertebrae—it was all, in a ridiculous way, kind of perfect. It was he and Blaine, spending time together and letting loose, working all of the tension and frustration out of their systems. They needed this.

“What time do we need to be at the bar?” Kurt asked as Blaine finished his sandwich with a final, blissful sigh. 

“We should probably get going, actually,” Blaine said, almost regretfully, “they'll probably be hanging out there already.”

They slowly made their way around to Milliken's Reef, a bar that the crew team who lived in the area had rented out for the evening. Blaine's hand found its way into the back pocket of Kurt's jeans, and he felt like it was air underneath his feet instead of sidewalk; it reminded him of those first few weeks back in New York when every touch was reverent, every look lasted a lifetime, every kiss made him tingle all over. This time around, the distance was easier; they were that little bit older, that little bit wiser, and a lot more secure in their relationship. They knew what it was to live with a significant other, to get used to their endearing quirks and grating habits, but knowing those things made it somehow easier. The price of Blaine following a life-long dream was six months of coming home to a silent apartment, long evenings spent alone with their kitten, and Kurt had made his peace with it.

As soon as they set foot inside the bar, they were greeted by a round of cacophonous cheering and applause. Kurt watched, wide-eyed, as Blaine slipped back into a skin he wore only when in front of a rapturous audience; every cell alive with the thrill of the performance. These people were his friends, his family, and it was plain to see how much they adored him.

“Blaine, my man,” Carlos said, catching him in a one-armed hug, before turning to Kurt and firmly shaking his hand. “Party can really get started now you two are here.”

Kurt learned that that was exactly who Carlos had become during his four months on the ship—Blaine had brought out that side of him, chasing away the cobwebs of shyness and breaking him out of his shell. With his endless optimism, he tended to bring out the best in people, and they loved him for it. Kurt met more people, learned more names that night than he could keep track of (“That's Marek, he's from Budapest. Awesome cook. And Agata, she's from Poland but she's been all over. You have to ask her to tell you the shrimp story! Oh, and there's the rest of the cooks; Rico, Alejandro and Ferdinand, but he makes us call him Steve. No one really knows why. And that's...”) and by the time Blaine seated himself at the piano, they were both several shots deep and buzzing pleasantly. Kurt was sandwiched between Zoe and Jessica (another of the few Americans on crew) giving them advice on how to coordinate colors with the seasons, when Blaine tapped on the microphone.

“Hey, everybody! Having a good time tonight?”

The answering cheer was nothing short of raucous, and Blaine shot them all an electric grin.

“Most of you know that I'm here tonight with someone pretty special,” he continued, pausing for the whooping and cat-calls to die down. “Kurt? Where you hiding, beautiful?”

“He's here!” Zoe and Jessica called out in unison, and Kurt took another shot before locking eyes with Blaine.

“Some of you might know that it's Kurt's birthday today. And because we're all _poor as fuck_ , I didn't get him a gift!” Blaine went on, and was met with booing and hissing worthy of a pantomime. “Kidding! Totally kidding, of course I got him a gift! But we have this little tradition, he and I, where we always sing a song to the other on their birthday. Kurt, baby, this is for you.”

The opening notes were pure and clear, and though it was being played on piano rather than guitar, Kurt recognized it straight away; another song from their year apart that gave them strength when it seemed like they were being laid to waste.

“ _You're the northern wind sending shivers down my spine, you're like fallen leaves in an autumn night. You're the lullaby singing me to sleep, you are the other half, you're like a missing piece_ ,” Blaine sang, and Kurt closed his eyes, letting the song wash through his heart and into his very blood. “ _Oh my love, oh my love, oh my love, you don't know what you do to me._ ”

As if from far away he heard the girls either side of him sigh when Blaine sang the final notes, and there were a few beats of silence before the crew burst into applause, which Blaine met with a sheepish 'thank you' into the microphone. “You know, Kurt's voice is beautiful. I've been dying to show him off a little.”

Kurt's gaze shot up. _It's been so long_ , he thought, and suddenly all the Dutch courage in the world wasn't doing a thing. There was a time when every microphone was his, when he owned every stage given to him (along with more than a few that were not). But he had left those days behind, and though he still sang almost every day, it was something for which he no longer wished to be lauded; it was a release, an expression, an intimacy he shared with Blaine.

“Baby, come on up here and sing a little somethin' with me,” Blaine's voice broke through his thoughts, and Kurt couldn't resist rolling his eyes.

“You always get really deep South when you've been drinking tequila, did you know that?” Kurt half-shouted as he made his way across the floor.

“You love it,” Blaine replied. When Kurt reached him, Blaine offered a spare microphone, holding onto it as Kurt's fingers closed around it in order to pull him in for a kiss, eliciting a collective sigh from the room.

“So, what are we going to dazzle our audience with?” Kurt asks, speaking into the microphone and gesturing to the crew. It was kind of amazing at how easy it was to slip back into the stage persona. Kurt Hummel: Diva Extraordinaire.

Blaine didn't answer, simply began playing. Kurt took a deep, bracing breath, and sang in unison with him.

“ _I'll find a map and draw a straight line, over rivers, farms and state lines, the distance from A to where you'd be, is only finger-lengths that I see_ ,” they sang, still harmonizing perfectly even without having sung this song since that very first month apart, when they'd both decided it was too painful a song upon which to fixate the terms of their separation. Now, it didn't hold so much sway. “ _And miles from where you are I lay down on the cold ground and I, I pray that something picks me up and sets me down in your warm arms._ ”

*

The departures board at Orlando International Airport loomed over them almost like a challenge, and as Kurt's gate was announced, he sighed heavily and leaned into Blaine's chest.

“ _What's past is prologue; what to come, in yours and my discharge_ ,” Blaine whispered, arms tightening around him, and it was absolutely all Kurt could do to keep from falling apart right there and then. “I'll miss you so much.”

“How am I supposed to walk away from you?” Kurt asked as he pulled back, hands fisting in Blaine's shirt.

“You turn around,” he said softly, gently tugging Kurt's hands away. He pressed one last kiss into his hair, then took his shoulders and turned him to face towards security. “You start walking, and you don't look back. I'm not here, anymore. I'm waiting at the other end, in two months' time.”

“I love you,” Kurt said, not looking back but taking hold of Blaine's fingers where they rested upon his shoulder and pressing a folded slip of paper between them.

“I love you, too. Text me when you land, and... I'll write you,” Blaine told him softly, dropping his hands and taking a step back. He watched Kurt's shoulders lower as if they were once more taking on the weight of the world, and then he stooped to retrieve his carry-on bag, held his head high, and started walking. He didn't look back.

When Blaine was in the cab taking him back to Port Canaveral, he carefully unfolded the slip of paper Kurt had given him. In Kurt's neat, looping handwriting were written the words of Shakespeare's Sonnet 116, and he couldn't have chosen a more perfect poem with which to say adieu.

_“Let me not to the marriage of true minds  
Admit impediments. Love is not love  
Which alters when it alteration finds,  
Or bends with the remover to remove:  
O no! It is an ever-fixed mark  
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;  
It is the star to every wandering bark,  
Whose worth's unknown, although his height can be taken.  
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks  
Within his bending sickle's compass come:  
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,  
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.  
If this be error and upon me proved,  
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.”_

* * *

_June 3rd, 2017_

_**Beep-beep, beep-beep**  
One new text message from: Blaine ♥_

**Blaine (12:44pm)** – Deadline day! Good luck, baby. You've got this.  
 **Kurt (12:45pm)** – I think I might throw up. It's not even announced until next month. I miss you.  
 **Blaine (12:46pm)** – Relax, baby. I believe in you; now believe in yourself. 59 days.  
 **Kurt (12:47pm)** – 58 and a half. I love you.  
 **Blaine (12:48pm)** – I love you too, little blackbird.

*

Dear Kurt,

I humbly do beseech of your pardon/For too much loving you.

It feels so weird to be writing to you again, when just a week ago you were here, in my arms. I think I miss you more now that you've actually been here, in Florida (our vacation aside, since we were here together). Now that you've met my friends, now that you've been to the places we go on the very rare evening off, it's like everywhere I go I'm just retracing your footsteps. Before, it was wanting to come home to you. It was anticipating the day where I get to pack my bags and walk off this ship and get on a plane and catch up with the Blaine I told you would be there waiting. Now, it's so much more clear, and... present.

Thankfully, there's been a lot to do to take my mind off it since switchover. We're on our new route now and I'm back on the excursions rotation—I'm writing this to you from St. Maarten, during our break for lunch. I want to bring you here one day; you'll love it, Kurt. It's so beautiful. There are so many places to explore, and the history of the place is just so fascinating. Did you know there used to be pirates here? They'd organize expeditions against the ships leaving the island for Europe.

I have some pretty exciting news to share! Carlos and Zoe are totally a thing. Well, they will be once they're off the ship. We're not allowed to 'fraternize', for obvious reasons. But you should see them together, Kurt. They're so adorable. And they live like, twenty minutes away from one another. Carlos has been wandering around after her like a lost little puppy ever since she first started, and then the other night he just took her to one side while we were all hanging out at the crew pool and finally told her. I'm happy for them. I am, it's just... It's hard, you know? I mean, I know they're not together yet, and they're not trying to push any boundaries or break any rules. They're being completely professional. But it's just knowing that they're together in the sense that they can look over and see the other one right there.

I'm sorry. I've just been sad lately, is all. I can't wait to see you again. 59 (58 and a half) more days.

Ik hou van jou,  
Candle

* * *

_June 5th, 2017_

**Gmail – Inbox (1) – getoffmyrunway@gmail.com**

**FROM:** imtheceobitch@gmail.com  
 **TO:** getoffmyrunway@gmail.com  
 **DATE:** 06/05/2017, 7:45PM (PST)  
 **SUBJECT:** (none)

Kurt,

I tried calling you, but you must be busy working still. Blaine told me about how you get when you're locked onto something.

Oh god, Blaine. How the fuck am I going to tell him?

There's a problem; a big problem, with the company. Just... Can you call me as soon as you get this? I need to hear a friendly voice and I really can't face mom right now.

Coop

*

_**Beep-beep, beep-beep**  
Message delivered successfully to: Cooper_

**Kurt (7:59pm)** – Do not, I repeat, DO NOT breathe a word of whatever this is to Blaine. He's fragile enough as it is right now. Still working but I'll call you when I finish in a half hour.

*

_**Beep-beep, beep-beep**  
One new message from: Kurt ♥_

**Kurt (10:05pm)** – I love you so much, baby. I'm so proud of you.  
 **Blaine (10:43pm)** – I love you too! What was that for?  
 **Kurt (10:47pm)** – No reason. I just love you.

* * *

_June 21st, 2017_

Dear Blaine,

The sight of lovers feedeth those in love.

With that in mind, have a few new pictures! Most of the McKinley gang made it into town to see Mike's company performing on opening night at Carnegie Hall (he was spectacular, Blaine. He only had a small part but he stole the entire show) and afterward, Puck insisted we went to Hooters. Let's just say, the sangria was definitely not strong enough for the things I witnessed that night. I may be suffering from a mild form of PTSD.

Things have been quiet at work. Like, really quiet. Too quiet. No one's saying anything about the contest. Since the deadline passed, it's like it never even happened. This could have the potential to shape my entire future career, yet it's all quiet on the Westwood front (please forgive the terrible pun; it's been a long day. Long week, really).

I'm so, so thrilled for Carlos and Zoe! I knew they'd make the cutest couple, I just knew it. I can totally understand what you said about seeing them together, though. Rachel just broke up with Dominic, again. Something about 'moving in different directions, creatively'. Sometimes I just want to shake that girl. She has an insanely cute, talented guy who hangs from her every word and is absolutely crazy about her, yet she still can't see past the end of her own nose long enough to see what is right there, ready and waiting. It's just so frustrating that she doesn't appreciate what she has, when you're so far away from me and all we have is words on a page or screen and voices at the end of a phone line.

Full of ennui. 40 days to go, handsome.

Te iubesc,  
Blackbird

* * *

_July 4th, 2017_

Dear Kurt,

Doubt that the stars are fire/Doubt that the sun doth move his aides/Doubt truth to be a liar/But never doubt I love.

I'm so, so sorry about our stupid fight. Figures that the first time I've been able to get a signal in the past two weeks and I end up picking a fight with you about something so trivial. I've just been so frustrated with not being able to speak to you or even receive a text or email from you. I'm sorry.

The internet's been funky on the ship since last week and we've been getting so many complaints—each voyage is so different, they're almost shaped by the groups of passengers we take on. I guess there were a lot of businesspeople this last trip—which, why? Why would they go on a Disney cruise and work?

To speak of happier things—Happy 4th of July! The parties today were insane. There were flags everywhere, and we put on a huge barbecue for the guests down on the lower deck (I've never seen so many fire extinguishers at once, just in case). Then there were watermelon and hot-dog eating contests (we had real hot dogs, Kurt. They tasted so damn good I almost cried), and a bunch of the engineers started a tug-of-war tournament down on the lower deck. Then we had a huge firework display and sang the National Anthem. I feel very patriotic today. Tell me all about the celebrations back home!

One last thing before I turn in for the night. I got approached the other night by this guy I'd seen around the ship and at all of the shows. You remember I told you that I'd be taking the stage more for the Reprise shows? I've been performing every night, and it's been such a rush. I can't wait to get home and into the studio for a little while, though my first project will of course be to finish it. Anyway, back to the point. So I was hanging out with the crew in one of the function rooms we were able to take over for the night, and we were all just sitting around talking and playing music and dancing, and Zoe asked me to play the song I wrote for you. I felt kind of weird about it at first (you don't mind, do you? I mean, if I were to ever record it, I'd change it a little to make it less... personal, but I wanted to check), but I got into playing it and it was just like being back in Central Park with you. I just closed my eyes and you were standing in front of me all over again. When I finished, I realized there was this guy standing there, one of the guests. He was all black shirt and gelled hair; kind of reminded me of Sebastian at first. But then he handed me this business card (the one I've sent along with this letter) and told me to give him a call once my contract on the ship was up.

Can you look into it for me and see if he's legit? Like I said, the internet's been funky and pretty much out of action whenever I've found the time to head into one of the cafes between working and waiting for guests to clear out, and I don't want to get my hopes up if he doesn't check out.

I can't wait to see you, exactly four weeks from today. This time in four weeks, I'll be back in New York. My flight will have landed, and I'll be collecting my bags, and then walking into the Arrivals hall and there you'll be. I miss your arms, and your thighs, and your hair. I miss your kisses and touches and the way you look at me afterward.

28 days.

Mahal kita,  
Candle

P.S. Have you heard anything more about the contest, yet? And also, since this might be my last letter to you before coming home (!!!), can I have a clue about my surprise?

* * *

_July 19th, 2017_

_**Beep-beep, beep-beep**  
One new message from: Kurt ♥_

**Kurt (9:12pm)** – So guess who just got back from dinner with Rachel Berry, Dominic (yep, back on again), and HUGH JACKMAN?  
 **Blaine (9:15pm)** – What.  
 **Kurt (9:17pm)** – He's back for a second run in Houdini! Rachel's been cast as one of the Spiritualists!  
 **Blaine (9:19pm)** – WHAT.  
 **Kurt (9:20pm)** – I know! I wish you could have been there, baby. He's wonderful. He said he wants to meet you.  
 **Blaine (9:23pm)** – ...WHAT???  
 **Kurt (9:25pm)** – How did he put it? 'I'd love to meet him sometime; bring him to the show!'  
 **Kurt (9:37pm)** – Blaine?  
 **Blaine (9:39pm)** – Hey Kurt, this is Carlos. Your boy just jumped into the pool with all his clothes on, and now he's just floating around in there singing Katy Perry songs and yelling 'Hugh Jackman' every few lines.  
 **Kurt (9:40pm)** – Oh dear lord.

*

_**Beep-beep, beep-beep**  
One new message from: Kurt ♥_

**Kurt (1:12am)** – If you've sufficiently recovered, I want to show you what your surprise is.  
 **Blaine (1:13am)** – Yeah, baby, sorry about that. It's just... HUGH FREAKING JACKMAN.  
 **Kurt (1:15am)** – Blaine.  
 **Blaine (1:17am)** – I know. Sorry. You want to show me my surprise?? What is it??  
 **Kurt (1:19am)** –  
  
 **Blaine (1:24am)** – YOU FINISHED IT?! Kurt, you... You are the best fiance ever. It looks spectacular! I love you. I love you so damn much.  
 **Kurt (1:25am)** – All for you :) You'll have to make sure all the equipment is in the right place, but... I'm glad you like it.  
 **Blaine (1:27am)** – In a week and a half, I'm going to SHOW you how much I love you. Thank you so much. I don't even know what else to say.  
 **Kurt (1:30am)** – Goodnight, Prince Blaine. Sweet dreams.  
 **Blaine (1:31am)** – Seriously. Best fiance ever. Goodnight x

* * *

_July 23rd, 2017_

Dear Blaine,

I love you more than words can wield the matter/Dearer than eyesight, space and liberty.

Well, it looks like this will be my last letter to you before you come back to me. I get home at the end of every day feeling a little lighter, like more and more weight is being lifted. Stephanie told me she noticed I'm wearing more colors again—I hadn't even realized!

The 4th was fun. Rachel and I met up with Andrew, Toby, Jeff and Stuart and we all went down to Coney Island for Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest—Rachel and I obviously didn't participate, but... Well, at the risk of sounding crass, it looks like Stuart is a very lucky man indeed. Did you know? After that, we all went back to Manhattan in time for the Macy's firework display. It was spectacular, as always. I missed you, though. I miss you every second you're not here.

I'm going to call you tomorrow when you're back in port, but I need to know that I've already told you, if that makes sense? The results of the contest were announced today. Stephanie called me into her office and told me I was taking the afternoon off, and that I should go straight over to Starworks. I was shaking the entire way there. I got called in, and there was Vivienne Westwood herself. She was just... She was so amazing, Blaine. She just radiates this energy and passion for what she does. And she's so funny! I think you'd love her.

Blaine, I won. I won the contest. It's real, it's happening, my collection's going to be made and worn and it's going to be 'Kurt Hummel for Vivienne Westwood'! It's my very own Sarah Burton moment!

Thank you. Thank you so much, baby. For believing in me, for helping me, for everything. You made me trust myself and my vision and now it's a reality (even though I still can't quite comprehend it). I've been walking on air all day long.

So I looked up the guy whose card you sent with your last letter. I decided not to tell you over the phone because I wanted to write this down, see it in black and white. Baby, I think this might be it. You need to call him as soon as you get home. He's one of the top headhunters at EMI. He checks out. Come home. Come home, come home, come home to me and our future.

Je t'aime. Oh, fuck it. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I LOVE YOU.

Ten days. TEN DAYS.

Yours forever,  
Blackbird

* * *

_Thursday 1 August, 2017_

Blaine's every last nerve was fizzling with anticipation. He could barely remember getting off the plane and making his way through the long and winding corridors of LaGuardia, and he couldn't stop fiddling with the straps of his holdall as he anxiously waited for his suitcase at the baggage carousel. _Jesus fucking Christ, why did I take anything with me? If I didn't have any luggage, I wouldn't be standing here right now. I could have just walked right out into Arrivals and then I'd see him and he'd hold me and kiss me, and—_

“Finally,” he muttered, bending forward to sweep his case from the carousel. Extending the handle, he pulled it along behind him as he followed the black and yellow signs out into the Arrivals hall. He was vaguely aware of a banner welcoming him home, his friends holding it up and cheering as he rounded the corner, but everything fell away as Kurt ran towards him and they collided with one another: lips meeting passionately, hands on waists, in hair, on necks, in clothes. It didn't matter that it was a shorter separation than the first four months. _It didn't matter_ , because Blaine was home and while he wouldn't give up a single moment of his six months working on the ship, he had _missed this_.

They broke apart slowly, their breathing labored. Kurt's eyes shone a deep blue in the fluorescent lights overhead, and they pressed into one another as close as they could get.

“I missed you, fiance,” Kurt said, and Blaine grinned.

“ _Kiss me, Kurt, we shall be married o'Sunday_ ,” he quoted.

“Taming of the Shrew, I'm impressed,” Kurt murmured.

“I know my Shakespeare,” he replied, and then Kurt was laughing and taking him by the hand and leading him towards his welcoming party, staying right at his side—and that was, quite possibly, the best feeling Blaine had ever experienced.


	13. Words Spoken, Eyes Open

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** This chapter PG-13  
>  **Spoilers:** None.  
>  **Disclaimer:** I paint the pictures; I just borrow the names.  
>  **Author's Note:** The song that Blaine sings is called, as you may have guessed, The Clocks Are Upside Down—another of my own composition. Thank you all for continuing to read! Head on over to my [Tumblr](http://borogroves.tumblr.com)—check out my [Snapshots Masterpost](http://borogroves.tumblr.com/snapshots) for cast pictures, my inspirations, and much more!

**Chapter Thirteen - Words Spoken, Eyes Open**  
 _Saturday 27 August, 2044_

Kurt shivered, and Blaine moved closer to him on the porch swing in order to wrap an arm around his shoulders. “Cold, baby?”

“A little,” Kurt admitted, letting his head rest on his husband's shoulder. “Thank you.”

“For warming you up?” Blaine laughed. “We can go inside, if you want.”

“For making me feel so much better tonight. And no, I'd like to stay here a while longer. When we get to the last one, maybe we could go up to the study and finally work on the rest?”

“Can you believe that in eighteen years we haven't found a single day to do it?”

“Yes,” Kurt said, after a pause to consider the question. “Between work, and the kids... We've just never stopped, have we?”

“I wouldn't change anything, though. Would you?”

Kurt motioned as if to shake his head, before thinking better of it and nodding. “One thing. I'd erase the entirety of the 2024 spring/summer season and the 'triumphant' return of harem pants.”

Blaine threw his head back and laughed, filling Kurt with such a sense of warmth that he wished (as he often did) he could somehow turn that laugh into liquid, decant it into a glass vial and hang it next to his heart.

“You know,” Blaine mused, edging even closer and running his fingers through the fine hair behind Kurt's ear, “we _could_ stop here.”

Kurt swatted him away half-heartedly. “You know the rules,” he reminded his tenacious husband. “And don't try to justify it by arguing that I said we could stop, because I say that every time. Rule one?”

“Coop's right about you, you know,” Blaine replied, dodging the question and letting his fingertips drift along the line of Kurt's jaw, “you would have made a fantastic lawyer.”

“Nice try,” Kurt said, expertly arching an eyebrow. Long-sufferingly, Blaine rolled his eyes.

“Fine. One: The Book is, at all times, to be taken seriously—with the exception of funny memories. Two,” Blaine recited, counting off on his fingers, “once we start looking through, we keep going until we reach the end. Three: no skipping, because every memory is important in its own way.”

“And four?” Kurt prompted, after a long pause.

“I'm not sure I recall a fourth,” Blaine muttered, shifting in his seat and pulling back his arm.

“Blaine.”

“Four,” Blaine huffed, “no trying to have sex with you until we're done. Which is completely redundant tonight anyway because I seem to remember you telling me you weren't in the mood.”

“A man can change his mind,” Kurt replied, the mischief in his eyes dancing behind the blue. Blaine groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “You're such a teenager.”

“You're fifty years old, and you're still as hot now as you were at seventeen. Can you blame me?”

“No,” Kurt conceded, the humor dancing in his eyes. “You know how happy you've made me, right?”

“As long as you know how happy you've made me. Even through the bad times,” Blaine countered, gaze sliding to the photograph to which they had just turned. It was innocuous enough; Kurt's chin rested on Blaine's shoulder, both were wearing tentative smiles and Blaine held up a black business card with a look of hope peeking through the storm in his eyes.

“For better or for worse. We didn't need to be married for that to already apply.”

* * *

_Saturday 23 September, 2017_

The way Jerry's eyes had narrowed had set him on edge from the very beginning of their meeting, and Blaine had had no doubt that from his vantage point in the very center of the restaurant, Jerry had seen Kurt kissing him good luck and goodbye. He'd certainly been enthusiastic about Blaine's talent and open to his thoughts and desires for his career path. He was impressed by the resume detailing theme park gigs, National Show Choir Championship wins and music tech qualifications. But they soon fell into talking about Blaine himself; moreover, what sort of image he wanted to present.

“I don't, um... I don't want to present an image of myself, Jerry. I want to present _me_. I write songs and play music because I love it, and I'm good at it,” Blaine said, with no trace of ego.

“As true as that may be, it's something you'll need to think about. As soon as someone makes it big, people start wanting the details. They want everything. For instance, are you dating anybody?” Jerry asked, sitting back in his seat and looking pointedly at Blaine.

“I'm engaged, actually,” he replied, face impassive despite already knowing where the conversation was about to go.

“The guy I saw you with outside,” Jerry supplied, and Blaine nodded in the affirmative. “Well. As long as you can be discreet about it, I don't see it being a problem.”

“Discreet?”

“You know, when they interview you and ask you questions about your personal life—and they will—just exercise your better judgment. Don't give anything away,” Jerry answered, his tone almost conspiratorial.

“And what if I was engaged to a girl?” Blaine asked quietly, his stony expression clearly unsettling the headhunter.

“Hey, I don't have a problem with it. My brother's gay and he's been happily married since they changed the laws. But with a talent like yours, you shouldn't limit your market so early. The industry's still got a long way to go,” he said.

Blaine relaxed a little, glad to know that Jerry was at least sympathetic. To an extent.

“No,” he said, after a long pause. Jerry smiled, looking satisfied, as if Blaine had been agreeing with his earlier sentiment. Shaking his head, Blaine continued, “no, I can't accept your offer. I'm sorry, and I'm truly grateful, but I put so much of myself into what I do that I can't compromise myself and still be the best that I can be. It wouldn't be fair, to myself or to Kurt. I wouldn't do that to him.”

Jerry inhaled deeply, before expelling his breath in a heavy sigh. “Okay, kid. I can respect that, especially when I think of everything my brother's gone through.”

“Thank you.”

“Just make sure to give me a call if you change your mind. I really think there's a gap in the market for someone like you.”

_It's the right decision_. Blaine thanked Jerry for lunch as he moved away from the table, and repeated the words over and over to himself, finding in them a rhythm of truth. He pushed his way out of the doors to the restaurant, and was nearly blinded by a chorus of flashbulbs. Instinctively, he raised a hand to shield his eyes, stopping dead in his tracks and blinking fiercely.

“Mr Anderson, Jessica Westwood from the Associated Press. Can you offer any comment on the buyout of Anderson Shipping?”

“What? I don't—“

“What are your feelings on the scandal that's ruined your father's company?”

Blaine lowered his hand, and found himself surrounded by a crowd of reporters and photographers, cameramen and sound technicians, all clamoring and reaching across one another to get to a better vantage point.

_What the fuck is going on?_ he thought, helplessly.

“Mr Anderson has no comment,” Jerry's voice came from next to him. Blaine could have cried with relief as Jerry pushed through the crowd and lead him into a waiting town car. He could hear nothing except the click-click-click of multiple shutters over a roar of questions and demands about job losses, scandals, and FedEx. So much for 'silent partner'.

“Thank you. You didn't have to do that,” Blaine said, grateful that through his shell-shock, his sense of propriety remained intact.

“So you're _that_ Blaine Anderson,” Jerry said heavily, a pitying look in his eyes. “Tough break, kid.”

“What were they talking about? Nothing's going on at the company; Coop would have told me.”

“Where have you been the past few—oh, right,” Jerry cut himself off, realizing he knew exactly where Blaine had been. “Look, I don't know how long it's been going on, but the news broke this morning.”

He handed Blaine a copy of that day's New York Times, and Blaine felt the oxygen slowly draining from his every cell as the headline screamed at him from the front page.

**ANDERSON SHIPPING ROCKED BY FRAUD SCANDAL  
FedEx Buyout 'A Generous Act of Mercy' Says CEO**

“This is a joke, right?” Blaine heard himself saying as if from very far away. He glanced across at Jerry, who looked thoroughly perplexed. His gaze shifted to the window, and he briefly gripped the driver's headrest. “Here, please.”

“You really had no idea, did you? Shit,” Jerry muttered, rubbing his hand over his face as the car rolled smoothly to a stop outside Blaine's building. “You gonna be okay, kid?”

“Can I take this?” Blaine asked, holding up the paper as he opened the car door. Jerry nodded with a wave of his hand. “Thanks, thank you. For lunch, and the ride.”

He probably didn't need to slam the car door as forcefully as he did, but he didn't dwell on it as he rushed inside the lobby and straight over to the elevator bank.

Kurt was pacing the hallway, phone in hand, as Blaine stepped through the door to their apartment. He tossed the newspaper down onto the end table and covered it with his jacket. He couldn't— _wouldn't_ —believe any of it until he got Cooper on the phone. Numbly, he rifled through the neat stack of thin packages next to Kurt's peace lily, feeling the telltale outline of jewel cases contained within, each brown envelope unceremoniously stamped 'UNSOLICITED MAIL: RETURN TO SENDER'.

“Blaine? How did it go?”

Kurt sounded almost frantic, and Blaine waved his hand dismissively.

“Didn't take it,” he muttered, eyes downcast. “For all intents and purposes, even though he was sympathetic, he wanted me back in the closet. I have to call Coop.”

“Cooper's here,” Kurt said quietly, and Blaine rushed into the living room, Kurt right behind him.

Blaine had witnessed various incarnations of stressed-out Cooper over the years. He'd seen him worried and angry at his bedside after the Sadie Hawkins dance. He'd seen him tired and over-worked when he came home from school at the beginning of the summer. He'd seen him drunk and wrecked after Olivia had walked out on their three-year relationship without a backward glance. But he'd never before seen his big brother like this: deep frown lines around his mouth, sitting hunched in on himself in a battered suit with his tie yanked loose, eyes darting between Blaine and McQueen, who was curled up in his lap and purring obliviously.

He looked exhausted. Broken. _Old_.

“You look like shit,” Blaine said, moving to sit on the couch opposite.

“Good to see you too, B,” Cooper replied without his usual easy humor or warmth.

“Coop, what the hell's going on?”

Cooper was silent. He pinched the bridge of his nose and ran both hands through his hair, exhaling deeply. Blaine didn't even realize Kurt was sitting next to him until he felt soft, slender fingers sliding between his own.

“Cooper, I was practically mobbed by a bunch of reporters less than fifteen minutes ago, so I swear to God if you don't tell me—“

“The company's fucked, Blaine.”

“What happened to us being bigger than FedEx? Coop, just—what the hell's been going on?”

“Accounts payable fraud. It was the board, they bribed the accountants. As far as we can tell, it started just after Dad passed,” Cooper continued thickly. “I guess one of the accountants slipped up or missed something, because the auditors picked up on it and then there was an investigation and... there it all was.”

“How much?”

“Millions. We haven't been able to quantify it exactly, but... We think somewhere in the region of fifty million.”

Blaine closed his eyes, white hot rage coursing through his veins. _How dare they? How dare they steal from the company, from my father's company?_

“Those of us left have had meeting after meeting and crisis talk after crisis talk. We've had consultants and lawyers and God knows who else coming around,” Cooper said, his tone lifeless and resigned. “But we're just having to face up to the fact that we can't recover from this. The amount that they managed to take, how much it's going to cost to try and recover it—if we even can... We've done everything we could and it hasn't been enough.”

“So what happens now?”

“Somehow, FedEx caught wind of what was going on and want to buy us out. We're sinking under our own debts and they still made us an incredible offer. We're taking it, Blaine,” Cooper finished, quietly.

The ensuing silence was all-encompassing, and pressed uncomfortably.

“The audits happen in April,” Blaine said slowly, continuing before Cooper could respond, “and with an investigation... It must have come out in May. June at the latest.”

Cooper was silent for a moment, guilt underwriting his entire body.

“Yes, but you have to understand—“

“You've known about this for months— _for months_ —and you didn't tell me? I had to hear it from the New York fucking Times!” The pressure gauge was climbing dangerously fast, heading toward that red zone where everything faded in a haze of rage and feet pounding on cement and punchbags and destroying beautiful somethings.

“Hey, we've been lucky that it's stayed out of the papers this long! Thank God for Andrea is all I can say,” Cooper retorted, and McQueen jumped down from his lap, stalking over to Kurt and curling around his legs. Andrea, Blaine knew, was Cooper's personal assistant—a formidable, slightly severe-looking woman in her mid-twenties who seemed to know everyone who was anyone.

“Is that the only reason you're here? 'Story's being printed, might as well let Blaine in on it'?”

Cooper glanced briefly at Kurt, who Blaine realized had been silent for their entire exchange. He was sitting forward with his elbows on his knees, clasping tightly onto Blaine's hand.

“How can you be so calm about this?” he asked.

“I—it's a lot to take in,” Kurt replied, eyes looking anywhere but Blaine.

As further realization came over him, Blaine pulled away.

“Kurt... Please, _please_ tell me you didn't know about this.”

“Blaine—“

Blaine wrenched himself away from the hand that Kurt had reached out, moving to stand by the side of the couch, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. “How could you—I've been back nearly two months.”

“Blaine,” Kurt repeated, standing up and approaching him slowly, “I... I don't have enough of an explanation, and I'm sorry for that. While you were away, you just seemed so fragile. Some of the days I got to talk to you, it sounded like you were barely holding it together. And then when you got back, I... You were so _happy_ to be home again, and I was so happy to _have_ you home, that when I thought about telling you I—I just couldn't let myself ruin it all.”

Blaine shook his head. He knew Kurt's words made sense, and if it were some insignificant little thing, it wouldn't matter. He would be able to just let himself be held together for a while, and then pick himself up, dust himself off and carry on. But the fact of the matter was that this wasn't some insignificant thing. This was his family's generations-old company going up in smoke, and he'd been kept in the dark about it.

Kurt took a step closer to him, raising his arms until Blaine stopped him with a soft press of fingertips to his chest.

“Don't,” he muttered, fixing his stare upon the fabric of Kurt's shirt. “I can't even look at you—either of you—right now.”

“Blaine—” Cooper began, but Blaine cut across him hotly.

“Don't you dare, Cooper. Don't you _dare_. You spent the better part of three months hiding this huge, life-changing thing from me.”

He needed to get out of the apartment, needed to rediscover the feeling of solid ground beneath his feet. Ignoring both Kurt and Cooper's protests, he swept into his studio, grabbed his guitar and slung it over his shoulder, the body settling with a hollow thud against his side. Donning a dark pair of sunglasses and grabbing his keys on the way out, he ignored the smattering of disturbed packages falling onto soft hallway carpet and slammed out of the apartment.

Blaine felt like he hit the ground with the wind knocked out of him as soon as he left the building, and picked the direction that, for whatever reason, seemed like it wouldn't suck the most. Any sense of logic had officially deserted him. He walked briskly, moving on autopilot as he thought about being eleven years old and just discovering the internet. He had driven his father crazy with his habit of sending packages all over the world. Candy bars to pen pals on the east coast. Mix tapes to friends across the Atlantic. Boxes stuffed full of comp books and pencils to the Red Cross for kids in Africa. He stopped abruptly in the street and fought the urge to flip off the businessman who cussed him out as he barged past. The memories were too much, and as he found his feet again he started cycling through chemical formulae in his mind. It never failed to remind him of those first weeks back at Dalton, with Wes by his side as his mentor, coaching him through his worst moments with repetitions of elements and compounds.

_Kurt's eyes sparkle and light up, and I wonder if he'll ever know this silly, gum wrapper ring isn't just a promise of 'always', it's a promise of 'I'll always be there to take care of you and catch you when you fall'._

_Aluminum silicate: A L two O five Si._

_Fencing and fighting; football and fixing up cars. Every 'f' that makes a man; no room left for failure, foregone conclusions or fucking other men._

_Magnesium metasilicate enstatite: Mg Si O three._

_Kurt's first mock collection at NYU: straight lines and muted colors. It's a wasteland in the form of ready-to-wear, full of howling wilderness and the bereavement of winter. It's the first time he tells me that his clothes tell a story._

_Potassium hydrogen tartrate: K H C four H four O six._

_Dad's eyes on me when Cooper tells him he wants to be a lawyer instead of taking over the company; he doesn't even need to tell me that it's all up to me now._

_Strontium tellurate: Sr Te O four._

Before long, Blaine found himself wandering through Central Park's Shakespeare Garden, and snorted derisively at the irony of it all. Somewhere in those last four letters, prefaced with Elizabethan quotes about love and devotion and defying odds, his fiance had started keeping things from him. Game-changing, life-altering things. As hard as he fought against the ignorant, heteronormative stereotypes that some tried to force upon gay couples to make more sense of them in their own prejudiced minds, from an early age he'd been instilled with a need to have the ability to provide for those whom he loved. It was archaic, sure, but was it really so wrong?

“Blaine, hello?”

Blaine whipped around at the sound of the voice, and he saw Stuart sitting on a semi-circular stone bench with four other guys, all of whom had guitars. He pasted on a bright smile and self-consciously rubbed at his neck.

“Hey guys,” he greeted them. “Sorry, I was miles away.”

“No kidding,” Stuart said, idly turning over a plectrum between his thumb and forefinger. “Heard about what happened. You feel like jamming with us for a while? We're just hanging out for a while before we have to go back to the studio.”

Blaine considered the question for a moment. He could feel the need to play, to take out all of his anger and frustration and sheer despondency on the strings of his guitar simmering beneath the surface of his skin. “Sure,” he replied, crossing the paving stones and leaning against the edge of the bench to swing his guitar around to rest against his abdomen. “Anybody got a spare pick?”

“Here,” said one of the guys, tossing across the thin piece of white plastic. Blaine grinned when he saw 'The Levels' emblazoned across it in simple, black text.

“I don't think you've ever been introduced to the guys, have you?” Stuart asked, and Blaine shook his head. Since being back from working on the ship, he'd been down to the recording studio a couple of times with Jeff, mainly to watch him play, and on one occasion he and Jeff had stood behind the window, sipping at beers while watching The Levels recording songs for their first studio album. Stuart pointed at each of the guys in turn. “Meet Tyler, Lee, Freddie and Noel.”

“I'm Blaine, good to meet you,” Blaine introduced himself, shaking each of their hands in turn.

“Blaine's one of Jeff's friends from the prep school days,” Stuart noted affectionately.

“Another rich boy trying to make it in the big, bad city, huh?” Tyler intoned, and Freddie jabbed him in the side.

“Ignore him, he's a bipolar existentialist with no filtering system,” he said, and the other guys laughed.

“And that's on his good days,” Noel added, only fueling the laughter.

“Noted,” Blaine said, resting once more against the end of the bench. “So, what are we playing?”

They spent half an hour cycling through some classic Kings of Leon and Mumford & Sons, both of which were close to the band's own sound, Stuart and Blaine singing while the band backed them up. Whenever a passerby would stop and listen for a few minutes, Stuart would switch out of his relaxing-with-friends mode and launch straight into his front-man persona, standing up and seemingly taking on a different skin as he sang for them. To Blaine, it all felt like an incredibly refreshing and welcome escape from the Greek tragedy into which his day had descended; playing music for the love of it and for the hell of it, just because it was a beautiful day and they wanted to create.

“Hey Blaine, play us something of yours,” Freddie said, and Stuart nodded.

“Jeff said you wrote some pretty intense stuff in your senior year, feel like showing us?”

Blaine thought for a second, and then settled upon the very first song he'd written, sometime after September when everything was wilting leaves and chill breezes. “Okay, sure. Why not?”

Quickly, he ran through the lyrics and chord progressions in his mind, making sure he remembered them in the correct order. He was proud of this song, and the way Kurt had kissed him after Blaine had played it to him on Christmas Day that year evoked such a strong connection to it that he always wanted it to be perfect.

_“It was never gonna be easy  
And now you're close enough to touch  
Time ticks to the beat of a melody  
It could be too little or way too much,”_ Blaine sang, his voice strong and sure. As he sank further into the embrace of clean, rhythmic acoustics, he heard Stuart join in and provide a second strain to the music.

_“You're the Sally to my Harry  
But you're slip-slipping away  
And I know where you are going  
But I wish that you could stay_

_“The clocks are upside down  
The clocks are upside down_

_“Now my days turn into metronomes  
Full of flats instead of you  
We're reduced to static overtones  
Is this something we should do?”_ He faltered a little, then. It was the most honest and telling part of the song; that he'd started having those ugly, unwelcome doubts so soon after Kurt had left was something he'd always be ashamed of.

_“I'm the Harry to your Sally  
But you're still leaving today  
And I itch to ask you, beg you, baby  
Baby won't you stay?_

_“The clocks are upside down  
The clocks are upside down.”_

Lee joined his guitar with theirs, picking out the melody as a refrain, and Blaine smiled. It had only ever been him and his guitar or piano, and while that wasn't something he wanted to change when thinking of a potential career, he had to admit that there was something incredibly satisfying about working with and taking on board the creativity and direction of others. As he began the final verse, Stuart hummed a harmony that complemented Blaine's vocals.

_“What happens to our patchwork squares  
When these moving ends won't meet  
Familiar stairs and what? Now? Where?  
And are we sure where this will lead?_

_“The clocks are upside down  
The clocks are upside down  
The clocks are upside down  
The clocks are upside down.”_

As he strummed the song to a close, the band applauded him and Stuart clapped a hand on his shoulder. “That was awesome.”

“You have a great voice,” said a woman from behind them, and Blaine turned around. She was tall, blonde, and impossibly well-groomed; she looked like she'd come straight from the set of a movie. She shifted the tray of coffees she was holding from one hand to the other, before stepping forward. “I'm Lisa Bristow, the band's manager.”

“Great to meet you,” Blaine said with a friendly smile as he shook her hand. “And thank you.”

“Are you signed?” she asked.

“No, though I'm hoping to change that,” he replied. After handing off the tray of coffees to Lee, she reached into her pocket and produced a business card with a flourish. Blaine took it, thumbing over the corner and admiring the simple, matte black finish adorned with the Interscope logo and Lisa's contact details.

“Something wrong?” Lisa prompted, when Blaine said not a word.

“Not wrong, no. I just—I'm gay,” he blurted out, and Lisa's expression softened. “And I'm not willing to go back in the closet.”

“Honey, we represent Lady Gaga,” she said matter-of-factly. “She's about as vocal about gay rights as they come. And we haven't asked Stuart here to hide who he is. The industry's changing. Slowly, but it's happening.”

Blaine smiled, finally allowing the warm, comforting hope to settle in a corner of his mind. Interscope hadn't been one of the labels to which he'd sent a demo, wanting to start out with small and independent labels as well as scheduling the meeting with Jerry. “Okay,” he breathed, pocketing the card. “Thank you, I'll—I'll definitely call.”

“You'd better,” Lisa instructed with a wink, before turning to the band. “All right, guys, don't want to be a stick in the mud but we've got places to be.”

After the band had left the garden, Blaine stayed awhile longer, experimenting with the melody of a song he'd been working on ever since getting back. He reclined against the cool stone of the bench, letting the last of the tension drain from him, and stayed there until the sun cast everything in its setting glow.

*

Blaine let himself into the apartment quietly, seeing as he did so that Kurt had picked up the packages he'd so uncaringly blustered by when he'd stormed out earlier that afternoon. McQueen sat by the end table and fixed him with an imperious stare as he hung up his jacket next to Kurt's.

“Don't look at me like that, little mister,” Blaine said, wagging a finger at him. McQueen simply turned and padded away down the hall. The smell of something wonderful and mouth-watering met him as Blaine followed the soft tinkling of McQueen's bell, and his stomach growled loudly in anticipation. He rounded the corner and stepped inside the kitchen, and could see the stress evident in Kurt's shoulders as he leaned over the stove top and stirred at a red sauce, the smell reminding him of dinner dates back in Ohio.

“Hey,” he said, tentatively pressing himself against Kurt's back and hooking his chin over his shoulder, hands resting on Kurt's hips. Kurt almost melted against him, every slight shift in position or turn of his head screaming relief.

“I'm sorry,” came Kurt's whispered apology, set against a background of soft bubbling as the pasta boiled. Blaine pressed a kiss into the side of his neck, and Kurt shivered a little.

“It's okay,” he replied. “I'm sorry, too. I overreacted. I know you were just trying to protect me. You went about it the wrong way, but I know why you did it.”

Kurt turned to face him, shame and guilt evident in the thunder cloud gray of his eyes. “You didn't overreact. Don't ever apologize to me for feeling the way you feel,” he said heavily. “I should have told you, or Cooper should have told you. You shouldn't have had to find out like that, and I'm sorry.”

Blaine breathed deeply, leaning his forehead to Kurt's. “It could have been anyone, _anyone_ other than FedEx.”

Kurt smiled tightly, and he brought his arms up to rest across Blaine's shoulders. “How about we boycott them from now on, on principle?”

“That would be petty, but incredibly satisfying on some level,” Blaine admitted. “How was Coop? When did he leave?”

“A little while after you did. He looked like someone kicked his puppy, but I think he's relieved that you know, now. He said he'd call you tomorrow.”

“I'll call him later, I don't want to leave things like this. Things were so much easier when we were kids and reading comic books in the tree house.”

“I know, baby,” Kurt said. “Where did you go?”

“Central Park. I bumped into Stuart and the rest of the guys from the band, and we jammed together for a while,” Blaine told him, and reached into his pocket for Lisa's business card. “And then their manager showed up, gave me her card and told me to give her a call.”

Kurt took the card from him with wide, hopeful eyes. “Interscope? Blaine, are you serious? They represent—“

“Lady Gaga, I know,” Blaine interrupted with a grin.

“Baby, you have to call her. You're going to call her, right?” Kurt asked with barely contained excitement.

“I'm going to call her,” Blaine assured him.

Later that night, once they had eaten dinner, washed the dishes and were lying tangled up together on the couch, Blaine reached for the remote and muted the television. Wordlessly, Kurt reached behind him and passed Blaine the phone. It was nearing eight p.m., which was late to be calling a business number, but Blaine was so anxious doing this for a second time that he would prefer the most likely result of calling at that time of day: voicemail.

“Wait,” Kurt murmured, pulling out his iPhone and holding it out in front of them, resting his chin in the crook of Blaine's neck. “This could be your big break; I want us to remember it.”

Stiffening his trembling fingers, Blaine held the card up next to his face and matched Kurt's smile. _Click!_

“Okay. Okay, I can do this,” he said. Nervously passing the cordless phone from one hand to the other, Blaine leaned back against Kurt, taking a deep breath as Kurt began gently kneading his shoulders— _courage_. Thumbing one last time over the corner of the business card, he finally relaxed beneath Kurt's fingers, and dialed.


	14. Sing It For The World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** This chapter PG-13  
>  **Spoilers:** None.  
>  **Disclaimer:** I paint the pictures; I just borrow the names.  
>  **Author's Note:** Blaine sexy striptease song: [Mad About You](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fR9vFEcC7aQ) by Hooverphonic (because he's a goober and it makes Kurt laugh). This chapter features another song I wrote for the boys. I have to say, I'm really enjoying getting inside Blaine's head and writing lyrics again. I haven't done it seriously in about six years or so—and the songs I wrote at age sixteen were... Let's say, less than stellar >_> Thank you all for continuing to read! Head on over to my [Tumblr](http://borogroves.tumblr.com)—check out my [Snapshots Masterpost](http://borogroves.tumblr.com/snapshots) for cast pictures, my inspirations, and much more!

**Chapter Fourteen - Sing It For The World**

_**The Knight And The Oak Tree: We Get The Lowdown**  
Jennifer Lowe, Mon 4 Feb 2019_

_It's been quite a year for Blaine Anderson. Arguably one of the freshest new talents seen in recent years, this bright-eyed young man has had a whirlwind eighteen months since being discovered by well-known Interscope head-hunter Lisa Bristow. Hailing from Ohio, the singer-songwriter has had two top five hits from his debut album and is currently embarking upon a nationwide promotional tour._

_I'm sitting in an opulently-furnished Los Angeles hotel suite with the dapper rising star, who is casually dressed in Levi's and a Brooks Brothers polo and looks positively glowing with success. He's dashing, charming, and practically brimming with excitement._

_**Jennifer:** Thanks for being here today, Blaine. You've got quite the schedule right now, huh?_

_**Blaine:** You're not wrong, Jennifer. Can I call you Jen?_

_**J:** You can call me whatever you want._

_**B:** (laughs) Jen it is. Yeah, the past eighteen months have been crazy. I never imagined everything would happen so fast, it really took me by surprise._

_**J:** I think it took us all by surprise! How have you been dealing with your life changing in such a big way?_

_**B:** Honestly, apart from being away from home so often, it hasn't actually changed all that much. I'm still spending my days writing and playing music, only now I'm getting paid for it. There's still a big pile of laundry to do and I can still only cook pasta, despite my fiance's best efforts._

_**J:** Your fiance being upcoming fashion designer Kurt Hummel, right? (Blaine nods, and his smile lights up the entire room. Better luck next time, readers—this is a man in love.) How did you two meet?_

_**B:** We're high school sweethearts. We've been together for—wow, coming up for eight years._

_**J:** That's wonderful! In fact, one of the tracks on the album is a duet with him, is it not?_

_**B:** It is! The song's called 'Seventeen' and we wrote it together. I'm hoping he'll perform it with me at one of my gigs in New York this month._

_**J:** Rumor has it that the final track on the album was written for Kurt himself..._

_**B:** It was a very difficult decision as to whether I'd record The Knight And The Oak Tree or not, and it was Kurt himself who actually pushed me to do it. It's a very personal song, and one that I hold close to my heart for a lot of reasons—but those I'll keep to myself._

_**J:** Critics have mostly been raving about the album, but you have had a couple of not-so-great reviews. How have you been dealing with those?_

_**B:** Well, I guess you just have to accept the fact that you really can't please everyone. Not everyone's going to like everything you do, you know? I've read a lot of the reviews including some of the negative ones, and I'm trying to take on board things they've said in order to come back even stronger with the next record._

_**J:** It certainly sounds like you've got the right attitude. No throwing TVs out of hotel room windows?_

_**B:** (laughs) No, definitely not. I'm just a happy guy who makes music and wants to do it for a living. Besides, I think Kurt would be mortified._

_**J:** What can fans expect from the album when it debuts?_

_**B:** It's a pretty even mix between guitar- and piano-driven songs. I like to think there's a little bit of something for everyone. There's songs about love, songs about loss... And then there's Purple Assassin, which, I barely even know what that's about. It's basically a lesson in why you don't get drunk with The Levels._

_**J:** Well, I know that I'm certainly looking forward to it, and you've got quite the following already. Blaine, I wish you the best of luck with everything. I think we're going to be seeing great things from you._

_**B:** I hope so. Thanks for having me!_

_The Knight And The Oak Tree is released today._

* * *

_**Kurt Hummel: New Kid On The Block**  
Elliott Murphy, Thurs 7 Feb 2019_

_Kurt Hummel. It's the name on everyone's lips lately. He seemed to come out of nowhere, but now he's here, the fashion industry is abuzz. After winning Vivienne Westwood's widely-publicized Masquerade! design contest, in just a few short months he has not only been given the freedom to create his own signature collections under the banner of the Westwood name, but he has also been named Creative Manager for the company. What's his secret? We caught up with him to find out._

_**Elliott Murphy:** So, Kurt. How does it feel to be the toast of the fashion industry?_

_**Kurt Hummel:** (laughs) Well, I wouldn't put it quite like that. But this year has been an incredible journey so far and I'm very, very grateful to be where I am._

_**EM:** What is it like working with Ms. Westwood?_

_**KH:** The only way I can think of to describe it is that it's like being in the eye of the storm while also riding along on the back of it. Vivienne's a genius._

_**EM:** Tell us: what does a Creative Manager do? I believe the title was created specifically for you, wasn't it?_

_**KH:** It was, yes, after my first season with the company. I manage the creative team based here in the US while Vivienne and Andreas are in London, along with working on my own collection each season. In a nutshell, being Creative Manager means being really busy!_

_**EM:** And you're only 24!_

_**KH:** I know! Sometimes I'm sitting in the studio or a meeting, or even just standing in the elevator and I literally have to pinch myself._

_**EM:** What's your secret?_

_**KH:** Definitely the love of a good man._

_**EM:** This would be singer-songwriter Blaine Anderson—is it true that you're high school sweethearts?_

_**KH:** Yes. He's my best friend and my other half in every way. I couldn't imagine my life without him._

_**EM:** Well, I can hear hearts breaking all over the country right now, so back to business: what can we expect from your new collection?_

_**KH:** Oh, I can't give anything away. Vivienne would kill me._

_**EM:** Not even a hint?_

_**KH:** Well, I've had the opportunity to develop a couple of my own prints, which I'm really excited about. We've been playing around with some gothic and period influences for this collection, but otherwise my lips are sealed. You won't have to wait long to see it!_

_**EM:** Readers, it looks like you'll have to have some patience. Kurt, thanks for coming in today, and I'm sure I speak for everyone when I say that we're waiting with baited breath!_

_**KH:** It's been a pleasure._

_See the new Kurt Hummel and Westwood spring/summer collections unveiled during Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week, beginning Monday 11 February 2019. Tickets on sale now._

* * *

_Friday 8 February, 2019_

The water was close to scalding as it pounded down on Kurt's shoulders, and he couldn't help but whimper as he felt the knots of tension gradually dissipate from his aching muscles. It had been nearly nine o'clock by the time he had finally been able to leave the office. He'd collapsed into the back of the first yellow cab he'd been able to flag down, knowing he was entirely unable to deal with the subway that particular evening. Come Monday, he'd be constantly surrounded by a gaggle of entitled catwalk models and having cameras unceremoniously shoved into his face from every conceivable angle whilst simultaneously attempting to deal with no end of inevitable complaints and things going wrong. He was lucky to have this weekend to take for himself. New York Fashion Week was no laughing matter.

“Baby?”

Kurt started at the sound, and ripped back the shower curtain to see Blaine leaning against the door frame, bags strewn haphazardly in the hallway behind him. He was more tanned than usual, probably owing to the fact of playing so many outside shows over the summer, and Kurt's eyes raked over him hungrily.

“None of that's designer, is it?” he asked quickly, pausing for a moment as he caught himself already reaching for Blaine.

“Not a stitch,” Blaine answered, a roguish gleam in his eyes as he bent to slip off his shoes—no socks, and it looked like they would be having words about that. Again.

“Good, then get in here,” Kurt said, taking a handful of Blaine's collar to pull him into the bath and under the spray. “God, I missed you.”

“Missed you too,” Blaine said, threading his fingers together at the back of Kurt's neck.

“Show me,” Kurt whispered, the words almost swallowed by the running him of the shower, but Blaine heard. His lips were warm on Kurt's, the taste of cinnamon lingering at the corners and tingling across Kurt's tongue. He moaned into Blaine's mouth, and although he'd come through the door half an hour earlier, it wasn't until that moment that he felt like he was really home, with Blaine gripping him by the waist and pushing him back against the wall.

“I brought dinner,” Blaine murmured into his mouth, and Kurt groaned again.

“I love you so much right now,” he said, breaking away and letting his head fall back onto the tile. “I haven't eaten all day.”

“I figured.” Blaine's chuckle was light and knowing, and Kurt wrapped himself into the heat and solidity of Blaine's body, some of the hollow feeling in his gut finally abating. “Come on. Let's eat and you can tell me all about your horrible week.”

Clad only in their fluffy terrycloth robes with damp hair and yawning eyes, they sat cross-legged and facing one another on the couch, Kurt twirling his fork into the noodles on his plate and offering it to Blaine whenever he was caught up in the middle of yet another horror story. Blaine refused every time, insisting that Kurt needed to eat, but Kurt offered all the same. It was comfortable and simple, and maybe he was just overly stressed and emotional from his nightmare few days, but it was all Kurt could do not to drag his fiance into their bedroom and cry into his skin.

“So tell me about the tour,” Kurt said abruptly, overwhelmed by a desire to change the subject. They had both been so tired in the evenings lately that all they could manage was to whisper declarations of missing one another and loving one another before they would take the sounds of shallow breathing and rustling sheets to spin into sleeping cocoons.

“I wanted to talk to you about tomorrow night, actually,” Blaine said, setting their plates down on the coffee table and loosely taking Kurt's hand between his own. “I know that this is your weekend off and I want you to be as relaxed as possible before next week starts, but...”

As Blaine trailed off, seemingly struggling for words and looking entirely too young for his years, Kurt squeezed his hand reassuringly.

“I haven't gotten to do _Seventeen_ yet, and since tomorrow night is the last show, I want you to come on stage and sing it with me,” he finally managed. Kurt cleared his throat, mind suddenly racing with questions and fears.

“What does—I mean, is that such a good idea?” he asked. After all, it was one thing to read or watch interviews with a celebrity—because that's what Blaine was becoming: an honest-to-god celebrity—talking about their significant other, but it was quite another to see that significant other in the flesh. Blaine's career was still in its fledgling stages, and while his label were nothing short of supportive, Kurt found himself wondering if performing their duet would do more harm than good.

“I think—no, I know it is. Haven't your followers been Tweeting you about it, too?” Blaine asked, and while Kurt inwardly rolled his eyes—again—at Blaine's newfound obsession with Twitter, he had to concede that there was a point in there somewhere. _Seventeen_ had become a Trending Topic the day after the album's release, and it seemed that a lot of fans were campaigning for a live performance.

“Okay. Okay, just—how many people?”

“Well, the place can hold about three thousand, but it's not sold out,” Blaine told him, and Kurt blanched. Sparsely-populated show choir audiences and crowded yet small bars were one thing. A walk in the park, a Sunday morning, the first sip of the first drink on a night out with friends. Sold out or not, a venue and an audience that size was completely different. “Will you think about it?”

“Of course,” Kurt answered, without hesitation. He'd walk through fire for Blaine if faced with some fantastical situation that called for it. Sometimes it scared him a little if he thought about it for too long, but then Blaine would only have to glance at him with that boundless love, all crinkly eyes and puppy grin Kurt would face down an armageddon to see, and the breath would be stolen from his lungs all over again. “Yes, I'll think about it.”

“I love you, you know.”

“I know,” Kurt said, voice stronger than he felt, and he met Blaine's kiss in the middle. “Take me to bed.”

Kurt probably shouldn't have wondered why Blaine kept his robe on when he'd been so quick to discard his own somewhere on the way out of the living room, and he certainly shouldn't have been surprised when Blaine docked his iPod and switched on an atmospheric song from Spring Break during Kurt's first year at NYU. But history repeated itself and apparently, so did the sex lives of two teenage boys giddy with a rush of adrenaline after three months spent on opposite ends of a phone line.

“Fire up the gun show,” Kurt joked, tucking the covers up beneath his chin and smiling as Blaine exposed one shoulder and looked back at Kurt almost coyly.

 _“Feel the vibe, feel the terror, feel the pain, it's driving me insane,”_ Blaine sang in time with the music, an octave lower than the female vocalist, and Kurt couldn't help but let out his first genuine laugh all week as he watched him strut up and down at the foot of the bed, swaying his hips like an old pro. He held out until the first chorus, but then Blaine was looking at him from beneath those thick eyelashes and singing the words _“mad about you”_ with the robe pooling around his hips. Kurt threw off the covers and scrambled forward, kneeling up to crush his mouth to Blaine's and push his robe the rest of the way off.

Blaine climbed onto the bed and gently pushed him back to cover Kurt's body with his own, licking a stripe up his neck before taking his earlobe between his teeth and pulling off slowly, so slowly. “Gonna look so good up on that stage,” he whispered, tracing the planes of Kurt's torso with barely-there fingertips. Kurt shivered at his words, scrambling for purchase in the sheets as Blaine's hand meandered lower, down across his belly and raking fingernails along the inside of his thigh.

“I haven't said yes, yet.”

Blaine chuckled, dark and slow. “Are you open to the idea of sexual favors?

“We could discuss it,” Kurt managed. There it was again; the dark chuckle that rippled across his pulse point before Blaine was licking his way between Kurt's lips and pinning his wrists to the pillows either side of his head. The music playing in the background washed over and through him, warming his bones to the core, and as Blaine began to slowly rut against him, Kurt's last coherent thought was that acquiescence didn't seem like such a big deal after all.

* * *

_Saturday 9 February, 2019_

Kurt had awoken with McQueen nestled between he and Blaine, purring happily as Blaine scratched at his belly and smiled blearily. After an admittedly longer lie-in than Kurt had had all week followed by a lazy morning spent in bed with newspapers and trashy Saturday-morning television, they were bundling each other out of the apartment by two, smiling around hot paninis and kissing crumbs from fingertips. A couple of girls on the subway who had their noses buried in copies of _Billboard_ and _Harper's Bazaar_ did a simultaneous double-take as Kurt and Blaine sat down opposite them, and began whispering furiously to one another. Three stops later and Blaine was laughing and chatting with them, Kurt interjecting with the odd witty or self-deprecating remark here and there, as if it wasn't the first time he'd been recognized. By the time they reached their stop they were talking as if with old friends. Kurt was sorry to have to say goodbye to them, and signed the autographs they asked for with a flourish and an affectionate wave as he and Blaine disembarked.

It was when they were inside the Clifton Park venue that he saw just how much work went into one show. There were people everywhere; runners delivering coffee, set lists and lengths of cable; roadies hefting amps and drums; technicians setting up lighting equipment; even Jason was there, standing with arms full of files and talking rapidly into his earpiece.

“All this is for you,” Kurt said, feeling himself swell with pride and looping his arm around Blaine's.

“Crazy, right?”

“Not at all.”

“Guys!” Jason called as he jogged over to them, his smile wide. Kurt supposed that Jason's habit of shaking a person's hand every time he met them—which was, at that point, three times—was something to do with meeting so many new people each and every day, and not wanting to come across rude if he couldn't remember encountering them before. It was endearing. “So we need to get started on sound-check soon, once the guys have finished hooking up the lights. Then we'll bring in the band and do a run-through of the set list, and we should be able to break for an hour around six, six-thirty. Then you go on at seven-thirty.”

“Let's get started, then,” Blaine said, pulling Kurt along with him as he made his way backstage.

The afternoon passed by in a flurried blur, and before he knew it, Kurt was collapsing onto the couch in the dressing room that had been set up for Blaine. It was close to seven o'clock when Zara, Blaine's stylist, came rushing into the room with racks full of clothes and bags full of styling products in tow. She was fashionably dressed, and as she greeted them both before immediately setting to work on Blaine's hair, Kurt noticed that she had a scarf from his latest collection artfully threaded through her belt loops. When he complimented her on it, she told him her boyfriend had bought it for her birthday, and wished she could tell the designer how much she loved it in person. Kurt bit his tongue, happy to silently accept the unknowing praise, but Blaine laughed and pointed at him in the mirror as Zara began working styling wax through his hair.

“What's funny?” she asked.

“You wanted to know who the designer is. That's him right there,” Blaine said, shoulders shaking and pride a warm overtone in his voice.

Zara's hands dropped immediately, and she whirled on the spot to face Kurt.

“Guilty,” he admitted, raising his right hand.

“This is a Kurt Hummel?” she breathed, and Kurt nodded. Her eyes flew wide, and two seconds later she was whipping out her phone to take a picture of them both. “That's going straight on Twitter. As long as you don't mind?”

Kurt waved her off with a smile, and moved to examine the racks of designer clothing lined up against the wall. At Zara's own insistence that he (being the fashion designer) should pick out something for Blaine to wear, he began rifling through them, immediately yet regretfully dismissing anything Westwood—including, with a little thrill at even seeing some of the pieces in there, his own collection. Plenty of people knew that he and Blaine were together; wouldn't it be creating the wrong impression for Blaine to show up on stage wearing his fiance's designs?

“You can put those right back, mister,” Blaine said warningly, his voice accompanied by a matching, pointed look. He gestured to the pair of tailored, vintage-wash jeans from Kurt's 2016 fall collection that had just been pushed aside—the very pair that Kurt had designed with Blaine in mind, and named after him. “I've worn those every show. They're lucky.”

“They're called 'Anderson', you can't,” Kurt weakly admonished him, but he had to concede that a pair of jeans wouldn't necessarily be scrutinized in the same way as a shirt or jacket.

“Well, that's too bad. Because I'm wearing them,” Blaine told him, and Kurt did his best to hide his smile as he turned back to examine the shirts. Eventually, he came to rest upon two, one a deep red and the other a soft sage. Holding up both for Zara's inspection, he raised an eyebrow questioningly.

“Green,” she said in unison with Blaine, and they grinned and high-fived one another.

When he and Blaine were both styled and dressed, Zara wishing them luck as she packed products back into her bag, Blaine lead him by the hand back to stage left. He stood slightly apart from Kurt, stretching out his fingers one by one and rolling his shoulders back and forth. The din of the crowd—two and a half thousand, Jason had told them—was a roaring in Kurt's ears, and he didn't realize quite how badly he was shaking until Blaine cupped his face with both hands and pressed a firm kiss to his lips as every light went out.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” an announcer's voice poured out of the speakers, and the screams of the crowd became deafening. “Please welcome to the stage, Blaine Anderson!”

“I love you,” Blaine said, briefly pressing their foreheads together.

“I love you, too. Break a leg,” Kurt breathed, and Blaine returned his smile before jogging out onto the stage.

*

Watching Blaine work the crowd, sharing anecdotes between songs and playing his music with a passion Kurt hadn't thought possible, was utterly electrifying. _West Side Story_ and the shows at Six Flags were one thing, but Blaine singing his own music, every note and every lyric infused with his own thoughts and emotions... Kurt spent the entire first half of the show trying to swallow around the lump in his throat. The evening was slipping by far too quickly, and he wanted to catalog every last second. Surreptitiously, he recorded a minute or so of every song from his vantage point, grinning every time Blaine shook his hips or threw a wink in his direction.

Before Kurt knew it, one of the roadies was handing him a microphone and attaching a pack and earpiece to the back of his waistband. Blaine was playing the final notes of Iconic to rapturous applause and stomping of feet, and as the noise died down, he wiped across his face with a towel and took a long drink from the bottle of Evian perched on his keyboard. Kurt could see him breathing heavily as he stood, looping his guitar across himself and crossing the floor to the free-standing mic below one of the two spotlights now trained on the stage.

“Ready?” the roadie asked him, and he nodded mutely, steeling himself against the wings beating out a ragtime rhythm in his stomach.

“So, guys, this is the last show,” Blaine was asking as he began to pick out a melody that it seemed to take the audience a moment to recognize. When they did, they went wilder than ever, and Kurt realized just how many dedicated fans Blaine had, the album having only been released the previous week. “Everybody had a good time?”

The answering cheers couldn't have possibly been interpreted as anything other than an affirmation.

“Well, guys, I've got a surprise for you. There's someone very special here to sing this last song with me tonight, and we both hope you like it. This is _Seventeen_.”

Kurt closed his eyes, took a deep breath, let his mind disappear inside the soft lilt of the love song they'd written together one beautiful summer afternoon beneath a centuries-old silver birch.

 _“You come around at seventeen  
Grace Kelly eyes and corkscrew hips  
Blackbirds fly and the ice breaks clean  
Oh, what I'd give to kiss your lips,”_ Blaine sang, before turning his whole body to face where Kurt was standing. “Ladies and gentlemen, Kurt Hummel!”

 _Courage._ One last reassuring glance from Blaine, and Kurt was walking out from behind the curtain, mic raised to his mouth as their gazes locked.

_“Darling, it took you long enough  
And you're lucky I stuck around  
Kidnapped by candles and moments  
And oh, what a love I have found.”_

Kurt relaxed into the song entirely, his voice clear and pure, and the crowd were practically beside themselves as they sang along and waved phones back and forth. Kurt felt his smile grow impossibly wide as he turned to Blaine for the chorus.

_“Let's move to a city and set ourselves free  
Let's love 'til our eyes close, we could finally breathe  
Let's promise to kiss and to touch and to be  
Let's grow into our shoes and stay seventeen.”_

“Hey Kurt, you think they like the song?” Blaine asked during the interlude, and the crowd cheered once more.

“You know, Blaine, I think they might,” Kurt answered, and the audience ahh'ed appropriately. Blaine laughed, the beat intensifying as the bass kicked in, and Kurt was swept away in the harmony they had created for themselves.

_“Moving mountains to get closer  
I've never felt a thing like this  
When days end you're leaving your clothes  
And it's more than just us that I'll miss  
We won't be more than miles apart  
But I want to wake up to your voice  
So tell me you're holding my heart  
And that it was never a choice.”_

The music swelled, and Kurt's breath caught as Blaine raised his face to the light, blinking back tears and smiling brighter than Kurt had ever seen. For a single, flying second that seemed to be made of nothing more than the tapestry of time itself, his heart stilled and everything else simply dimmed to black. They were caught in a moment, entirely lost in the music and the gravity of each other.

_“Let's move to the city and set ourselves free  
Let's love 'til our eyes close, we could finally breathe  
Let's ask all our questions down on one knee  
Let's grow into our shoes and stay seventeen.”_

Blaine and the band finished playing the closing bars of the song, and Kurt closed the gap between them to hold onto Blaine as adrenaline set his veins alight and the crowd erupted.

“You were amazing. I love you so much,” he heard Blaine say, just as he became aware of the crowd chanting something over and over, louder and louder. It sounded like—

“Are they chanting for us to kiss?” Kurt asked, not realizing the microphone had picked him up until it was too late.

Silently, Blaine turned his head and brushed his lips across Kurt's. It was gentle, brief—perhaps even chaste by their standards—but somehow it was the most intense kiss they had ever shared, and they broke apart with shining eyes.

“Give it up for the incredible Kurt Hummel,” Blaine said into the mic, his easy stage smile returning. Kurt took a brief bow, mouthing his thank-yous to the faces he was able to discern in the front row, and squeezed Blaine's arm one last time before leaving the stage.

*

Interscope threw a party for Blaine that evening to close the tour on a high note, and both he and Kurt spent most of it greeting fans with backstage passes, signing autographs and taking pictures. They'd also had a chance to catch up with Kristy, Toby, Stuart and Jeff who had all come to support Blaine. When they finally fell into bed well past two a.m., phones silenced and tired bodies curled against one another, Kurt stole a moment to breathe.

“Okay?” Blaine asked, voice muffled and already halfway to sleep.

Kurt hummed in response, nuzzling into the back of Blaine's neck, feeling like life couldn't possibly get any better. “We're making it, aren't we? _You're_ making it.”

“Yeah,” Blaine whispered in response, hooking his ankle around Kurt's. “I think we are.”

* * *

_Saturday 27 August, 2044_

Blaine smiled to himself as he re-read Kurt's words in the interview that seemed like it was published only yesterday.

“The love of a good man, huh?” he chuckled to himself.

“The best,” Kurt's voice came from the doorway, already back from excusing himself to use the bathroom. Blaine held out a hand and pulled Kurt into his lap, resting the book across his thighs. Kurt breathed deeply, turning his wedding ring around on his finger where it had shifted off-center before turning to the next page, grinning when he saw the wedding invitation printed on thick, cream-colored vellum. “I still can't believe you used FedEx. Especially so soon afterward.”

“Would you rather I hadn't invited you? I couldn't very well have married myself, you know,” Blaine told him, resting his head on Kurt's chest.

“Sue did,” Kurt reminded him.

“She still ruling the roost at St Leonard's?” Blaine asked, feeling a pang of nostalgia for the woman who had once likened him to a young Burt Reynolds.

“Last I heard,” Kurt said fondly. “We should look in on her next time we're in Ohio. Maybe we could take the kids up there for Thanksgiving.”

“I think she'd like that.”

“She'll tell us we've gotten fat and then congratulate you again on providing a new home for the small animals that live in your hair,” Kurt joked, thinking of Oliver's messy curls and how he'd never been able to do a single thing with them lest he provoke a tantrum.

“What can I say? I'm a guy who cares,” Blaine deadpanned, and there was a momentary pause before they were both laughing again. “Alright, alright. Back to business.”


	15. I Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** This chapter NC-17  
>  **Spoilers:** None.  
>  **Disclaimer:** I paint the pictures; I just borrow the names.  
>  **Warnings:** Drinking! Mild drug use! Fluff! Love! A mini-angst! More fluff! Ridiculous dancing! Surprise Warbler attack! EVEN MORE FLUFF FO' YO' DOLLAH!  
>  **Author's Note:** Constructive criticism and comments are welcome and appreciated! Please make sure you click the links included in the text whenever you see them--they're to the songs featured, and they'll definitely enhance the reading experience. Enjoy!

**Chapter Fifteen - I Do, Part A (The Hangover)**   
_Saturday 24 August, 2019_

Kurt came around slowly, feeling himself ease quietly back into consciousness. He felt like he was floating, weightless, no strands tethering him to the soft grass pillowing his body.

_Wait. Grass?_

His eyes shot open, and it was as if someone had hit him with a sledgehammer. Sun streamed down between the tree leaves that were just beginning to crisp along the edges overhead, creating dapples across his clothes as they swayed in the gentle breeze. It would all have been very beautiful were it not for the fact that _Stomp_ seemed to have claimed Kurt's skull as their latest musical playground.

Groaning, he rolled onto his back and performed a quick but thorough check of his person. Good. Keys, wallet and phone all intact. Upon closer inspection, also intact: three condoms, a shark's tooth key chain, a Polaroid of him sans shirt straddling an equally shirtless Blaine inside the nightclub, and a small green tiki mask pin. As he gingerly moved to a sitting position, pain simultaneously flared in his head, butt, and elbows, and he swore under his breath while surveying the objects in his hands. There were seven multi-colored glow-stick bracelets around his left wrist, and a huge, tacky plastic diamond ring on his ring finger.

_What? Fuckfuckfuck._

_No, no, calm down,_ Kurt told himself as he yanked off the ring and shoved it deep into his pocket where it could no longer visually offend him. _You took it off at home, just in case. It's in its box, next to the alarm clock. Blaine made The Face even though he knew it was a good idea._

As if on cue, Kurt's phone began blaring _Purple Assassin_ at full volume, and he noticed that beneath the picture of Blaine asleep in their bed, it listed nine missed calls. For a few seconds he could only stare dumbly, before realizing that, no, the phone was not going to answer itself. Grimacing at the taste of stale alcohol and death in his mouth, he cleared his throat and winced as he swiped across the screen and raised the phone to his ear.

“Blaine?” he rasped, recoiling at the wrecked sound of his own voice.

“Kurt! Oh my fucking god, where are you? You're okay, right? Tell me you're okay, Kurt, please,” Blaine exclaimed frantically, and Kurt found himself holding up a shaking hand as if his fiance were standing before him.

“I'm fine,” he said, cradling his head and hunching over. “I have a headache and I'm pretty sure something crawled inside my mouth to die, but I'm all here.”

Blaine's sharp exhale of relief became static across the connection, and all Kurt wanted to do (other than never, ever let another drop of alcohol pass his dry and chapped lips) was succumb to sleep until he woke up feeling less like a microwaved corpse. “Where are you?”

“I'm—“ Kurt stopped short, glancing around himself and digesting his surroundings. “I'm by the zoo.”

“What—the hell happened—last night?” Blaine asked, sounding muffled.

“I don't know,” Kurt groaned, leaning heavily on the trunk of the closest tree in order to stand up. The ground looked like it was at a forty-five degree angle. “Blaine, I—can you...”

“I'm on my way. Just stay where you are, I'll be there soon.”

While Kurt waited, he had time to reflect on the insanity that had been the past two weeks of his life. He had been in London for two weeks at Westwood HQ, and the day before he was due to fly back, he had received a thin and unassuming FedEx packet. It wasn't an unusual event; he was always being sent fabric samples and swatches for approval, after all. What was unusual was that it was from Blaine. Blaine, who never set foot inside FedEx, if he could help it. When Kurt had opened it and processed the contents, he had immediately called Blaine, not caring that it was 3am in New York.

_”Kurt?”_

“Blaine,” Kurt had greeted him shortly.

_”Kurt, what's going on? Are you okay?”_

“I guess that depends on how you look at it,” he responded cryptically, running his fingers over the heavy vellum of the wedding invitation that gave a time and date, but no location.

_“Baby, just—what's going on?”_

“I'm getting married.”

After a pause, Blaine spoke again. _“Yes? I mean, I did ask you...”_

“I'm getting married,” Kurt repeated slowly, “next Wednesday, apparently. Care to explain?”

It was then that it all came tumbling into the light. One night two weeks earlier, after Kurt had called Blaine and told him about his newest television obsession—an English TV show called _Don't Tell The Bride_ , where an engaged couple was given £12,000 and three weeks to plan their wedding, the only catch being that the groom had to plan it with no contact with or input from the bride (or the other groom, in a couple of cases)—Blaine had decided to take it upon himself to plan their wedding.

“Are you insane?”

 _“That's what everyone keeps telling me,”_ Blaine groaned, and Kurt couldn't help but feel more than a little guilty.

Blaine went on to explain that he hadn't been able to get the idea out of his mind. That while all of their friends and family knew that when it came to planning and organizing events, Kurt was without doubt the best, Blaine knew Kurt at his core. He may not have always had a complete grasp on Kurt's taste or why he followed certain trends, but he had intimate knowledge of the inner working of his fiance's mind. Kurt was always the one running himself ragged to pull off miracles in no time for little money, but no one ever did anything like that for _him_. Kurt wouldn't even think to ask—which, Blaine said, was the part he loved the most—but Blaine knew that deep down, Kurt wanted someone to do for him what he so often did for others. He knew what it meant when the sparkle in Kurt's eyes dimmed a little as he watched the people for whom he had orchestrated the event enjoying themselves. He knew what it meant when Kurt flopped onto the couch at the end of an evening and sighed a little to himself; satisfaction undercut with a current of longing. He knew what it meant when Kurt would pull him close after a party and let Blaine give him whatever he needed, wanted, never asked for. Kurt was taking something for himself, something that was only his to take, and for a few moments simply reveling and securing himself in it.

Blaine told him he'd had phone calls from Kristy, emails from Kurt's family and even a visit from Cooper all to say that he was certifiable, but he didn't care. The florist, caterer and photographer were all booked and triple-confirmed, with exhaustive manifestos concerning the color scheme, cake and order of the ceremony in their respective care. Blaine had met with the Justice of the Peace who was, thankfully, available to perform the ceremony. He'd sent out urgent Save The Dates via email ahead of the real invitations, along with notes imploring the recipients not to tell Kurt any of the details. Somehow he'd even gotten hold of Vivienne to request vacation time, and she had then taken it upon herself to create Kurt's wedding outfit, saying that although she wouldn't be able to attend the wedding itself, she would be there “in spirit and silk”.

Once everything had been put in place, with the final guest list confirmed, he had mailed Kurt's invitation and all that was left for Kurt to do was choose his best man and show up on the day.

When Kurt had returned to New York, he'd hunted through the entire apartment like a hurricane, but he hadn't found a single shred of a clue as to where the wedding was taking place or what to expect.

In the middle of searching through old boxes of sentimental things for which they had no place in the apartment proper, he'd come across one of Blaine's old NYU shirts, the earthy scent of Paco Rabanne still clinging to it. He'd inhaled deeply, remembering their college years with fondness. Living together for the first time, discovering all of the quirks and habits they both possessed, lying on the couch with feet tangled and breathing easily as they watched reruns of _Friends_ in between studying and cooking and socializing. He folded the shirt in his lap, splaying his fingers through the softness that can only come from washing something over and over and over, and decided to stop his search. Blaine had done all of this for him, and it was unfair to ruin the surprise.

Half an hour after calling Blaine, Kurt was sitting on a low wall, bent at the waist with his hands hanging limply between shaking knees. Eyes closed, he concentrated only on breathing in and out to a measure of eight, which was helping to stave off the almost overwhelming bursts of nausea. The air in front of him shifted, and he knew without looking that it was Blaine laying warm hands on his shoulders and a kiss on the bed-head of hair that he had not yet dared to look at in the darkened screen of his iPhone. His shoulders slumped, relaxing into Blaine's embrace, and Kurt let out a shuddering breath.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” Blaine asked, using the pet name he usually reserved for when Kurt was sick. His voice was soft, like a cool and soothing shore lapping at the rough sand inside of Kurt's skull.

“I am now,” he mumbled, and he reached out for Blaine's arm to steady himself as he slowly got to his feet, shielding his eyes from the bright August sunlight. Wordlessly, Blaine took off his sunglasses and set them atop Kurt's nose. “Oh, that's so much better. Thank you.”

“Welcome,” Blaine said, taking his hand. “Via Quadronno's right around the corner, do you want—“

“Coffee, yes. Coffee would be heaven,” Kurt groaned, pitching forward and letting his head rest on Blaine's shoulder. “How are you not disgustingly hungover right now?”

“Oh baby, I am,” Blaine laughed. “I can't remember a thing about last night. But I took a freezing cold shower when I woke up, before I realized you weren't there. It was more painful than the headache.”

“I swear to all I hold dear in this world that I am never getting drunk again.”

*

Inside the coffee shop, Kurt left Blaine at the counter to get the hit of caffeine they both sorely needed and all but collapsed into a chair at one of the tables in the back. Taking off Blaine's sunglasses, he wearily rubbed at his gritty eyes and scratched at the barely-there stubble lining his jaw before spreading the mementos of the previous night (save for the condoms—he still retained some sense of propriety, bachelor party notwithstanding) out over the table in front of him and studying them closely.

“You too, huh?” Blaine's voice came from above him. Kurt glanced up gratefully as he took his steaming mocha and inhaled deeply. From the very first rich and bittersweet sip, Kurt began to feel more alive and less like a mountain of glass shards stuffed inside a human skin.

“Me too, what?”

Blaine set down his cup and gestured at the neat pile of obscure objects on the wooden tabletop in front of Kurt. At Kurt's blank expression, he fished into his messenger bag and produced three objects of his own: a blue and white pacifier; a tiki pin to match Kurt's, and a small silver key with a tag that read 'Schwartz Travel Services, 355 W 36th Street', along with the number 28.

“The pacifier could easily be Tina's, since she brought her diaper bag with her to hold all of her party supplies.”

“Yes!” Blaine exclaimed loudly, before offering an apologetic glance to the startled customers nearby. “I remember now, she dropped it when she was digging out the hats and I picked it up. She was already off handing the hats out and I didn't wanna go through her things, so I just stuffed it in my pocket. Guess I forgot.”

“You're adorable,” Kurt said fondly. “That explains the pacifier, then. These tiki pins, though... I guess we could send out a mass text? Wherever we were, we were obviously there together.”

Blaine nodded his agreement to Kurt's reasoning, and picked up his phone to begin tapping out a message.

“What about this picture? And who even has a Polaroid camera anymore?”

“Jeff does, you know he's into all things retro,” Blaine answered, setting his phone back down on the table and doing a double-take as he saw the picture. “I—Wow. I do _not_ remember that.”

“At least we look good semi-naked,” Kurt mused, quirking an eyebrow at Blaine's appreciative, sweeping gaze. Sipping at his coffee, he picked up the key and turned it over between his fingers. “Looks like we're making a trip to Schwartz. But I'm not going anywhere until I take a shower and make myself look fabulous.”

“Kurt, you look fine,” Blaine told him.

“Blaine, you're getting recognized more and more. We don't want people thinking you're dating some hobo.”

“You don't—“

“You know better, Blaine.”

*

Once Kurt was showered, moisturized, coiffed, dressed and once again wearing his real engagement ring, he and Blaine made their way out of the apartment and caught the elevator down to the lobby.

“Treasure hunt,” Blaine said, grinning excitedly.

“I thought the pirate days were behind us,” Kurt grumbled as they stepped back out into the sunshine.

“The pirate days will never be behind us,” Blaine quipped, slipping his hand into Kurt's and swinging them back and forth as they set off along Amsterdam Avenue.

He and Blaine walked in a peaceful and companionable silence, sharing smiles every now and then as they soaked up the latest Surprising Sunday—a private joke of theirs. After Blaine's first three days living in New York, Kurt had finally put his foot down and demanded that Blaine needed to see more of the city than their bedroom (and their couch, and their shower, and their kitchen island, and their...). As they had taken their first stroll, hand in hand, down 5th Avenue—just as busy and loud as it was on any given weekday, albeit with significantly less suit-clad businessmen—Blaine had commented on how surprising the contrast was between Sundays in New York and Sundays in sleepy Lima, where the only reasons to leave the house were visits to church or picnics to the park in the summer. Kurt had told him it was the aspect of the city that Kurt still loved the most—he had spent over eighteen years in Lima waiting for his life to begin, and to go from a town that strolled along at a slow and leisurely pace to a city that sprinted as if on steroids was something that still made him pause for a moment to saturate himself with the atmosphere.

Lost in his own thoughts and memories, retracing their footsteps in his mind, he didn't realize Blaine had stopped dead outside Brooks Brothers when they reached 65th and Broadway. Kurt rolled his eyes with a smile and turned to go inside, but Blaine's hand shot out and held onto Kurt's wrist tightly.

“Do you hear that?” he asked with a horrified expression, and he pointed over Kurt's shoulder. Following his line of sight, Kurt turned and immediately locked onto an African-American man walking down the opposite side of the street with a 90s-style boombox perched on his shoulder.

A dirty, gritty bassline. Cymbals. _Sexy boy._

 _”Come on, guys,” Blaine cajoled the mostly drunk Warbler and New Direction collective as the club—which was empty save for their group thanks to best men Cooper and Finn—was pumped full of LMFAO. Carefully getting to his feet, fingers curled around his mic, he waved a hand in Kurt's general direction. Santana ran past him and up to the DJ box, holding out a piece of paper to the female DJ before giving her a lascivious once-over and swaying her hips as she returned to the group. “He's not gonna do it. In fact, I will bet all of you the next round of drinks that he doesn't have the_ guts.”

_Kurt bristled at that, and he tried to tamp down his urge to prove his fiance wrong._

_“Challenge accepted,” he heard himself saying coolly as he stood and brushed himself off. It was nearing one a.m., they were amongst their best friends (many of whom had been present for quick-changes throughout high school) and he was still in almost full control of his faculties despite the amount of alcohol he'd consumed. Blaine grinned widely and tossed the mic to Wes before pointing at Kurt and crooking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the bathroom. Quirking an eyebrow and ignoring the catcalls from the dancefloor, Kurt followed after him curiously._

_“Okay, so there's no pressure here,” Blaine began once they were inside and he'd checked to make sure they were alone, “but Santana got us these.”_

_Kurt took the small plastic baggy that Blaine held out to him and studied the tiny pink pills. “Ecstasy?” Blaine nodded, eyes dancing excitedly. “Are you?”_

_“I've wanted to try it for a while, but if you're uncomfortable or if you'd prefer I didn't—“_

_Kurt placed a hand over Blaine's mouth to stop his rambling, and Blaine smiled back at him somewhat sheepishly. “Okay,” he said, simply._

_“Okay?”_

_Kurt nodded. “You first,” he said, opening the bag and holding it out to Blaine. He was still a little unsure; they'd experimented with weed a couple of times in the past, back when Santana and Brittany had still been going strong and came to visit, bringing with them a vaporizer and they'd sat on the roof of their building giggling like born-again teenagers. Blaine had his eyes locked on him as he placed the pink pill on his tongue and held it there. Kurt found himself nodding, and then Blaine was kissing him with his hand gentle and comforting on the nape of Kurt's neck; there it was, that tiny little pill, and he could feel it fizzling into his taste buds as Blaine took the other._

_Kurt swallowed, washing it down with a gulp of the bottled water Blaine had brought in with them, and took a moment to rest his forehead against Blaine's. He couldn't help but laugh a little at how giddy and free he felt, riding high on a cresting wave of love and disbelief that he was getting married in just four days' time._

_“I love you for doing all of this,” he told Blaine as he pulled back and brought his arms up to loop around his soon-to-be husband's neck. “I know my first reaction was maybe less than gracious, but... Everything you said was right. I forget sometimes that you know me better than I know myself.”_

_“Always will. And on Wednesday—“_

_“It'll be official.”_

_“Nervous?” Blaine whispered._

_“No,” Kurt said simply. “I'm ready.”_

_Blaine smiled and kissed his jaw, murmuring the words, “me too” against the skin there. “Are you ready for_ this, _though?”_

_Kurt breathed in sharply, and rolled his shoulders as if limbering up. He began to feel something moving through him, a certain electric languidity that was sweeping into every corner within. When he glanced up at the harsh strip lighting and turned his head from side to side, there were trails left behind as if he was writing his name with sparklers on the 4th of July. Blaine followed his gaze, pupils blown darker than ebony, and smiled almost serenely as he turned to lead Kurt from the bathroom. Santana was waiting outside for them, and Kurt draped himself over her, feeling loose-limbed and warm._

_“You ready to get your freak on, Twink?” she asked, quirking her eyebrow, and Kurt nodded as the multi-colored lights swung slowly and lazily overhead, creating a mess of spectrum and pretty. She signaled to the DJ, who pulled out a vinyl record with a flourish, twirling it in her fingers before setting it up on the decks and expertly fading between the two songs._

_A rush of adrenaline and clear-headedness overtook Kurt as[ **a dirty bassline filled the club**](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lC6vZOgYduk), and he strutted to the middle of the dancefloor in time to the beat as a high-hat began filtering through. He turned on his heel, staring at Blaine through half-lidded eyes as he undid his tie and looped it around Blaine's neck, pulling him close enough to kiss but not following through. Their friends were wolf-whistling, musical notes dancing in the air around Kurt like he could reach out and touch them, and he backed Blaine onto the nearest of the high-backed couches to straddle his thighs._

_Stanzas of sheet music wrapped around his middle and he circled his hips as breathy vocals in French flooded his senses, the translations shimmering before his eyes. He smiled, the warmth from Blaine's hands either side of his knees washing throughout his body, and glanced around at the group of people there for them, to celebrate their engagement and their wedding and their love for one another. He saw them in slow motion, Finn turning more and more red as he averted his eyes; Santana fist-pumping the air and cheering him on; Mercedes and Tina laughing behind their hands; Thad and Flint catcalling either side of a somewhat flustered Wes. Kurt loved everyone, he loved them all, but they were only audience members to the production of which he was one of two leading men. He fixed his gaze on Blaine, leaning over him and finger-walking down his torso to untuck his polo. In one smooth movement that stretched for a forever-second, Blaine raised his arms and Kurt swept it off, swinging it once over his head before flinging it away to his right, where Jeff caught it and shouted out something obscene._

_Kurt backed away, swinging his hips to the beat that seemed to sound from beneath the surface of his skin, and began working his hands behind his back to loosen the laces of his corseted waistcoat. Blaine rubbed his palms up and down his thighs and shifted around in his seat, and Kurt wanted to laugh as he caught the hazel flecks through thick eyelashes and lip-synced the words 'sexy boy'—if Blaine had still been wearing his shirt, the flesh beneath the collar would certainly be aflame. Kurt slipped off the waistcoat and held it on his fingertips as he moved closer again, the music in his veins coming from somewhere deep within and being exhaled with every blink, every movement. Draping the waistcoat over Blaine's shoulder, he surged forward to sit in Blaine's lap, gyrating and grinding into Blaine's crotch. Soon enough, his own shirt was being pulled over his head and as the hazy, cloying air hit him, Kurt placed his palms flat to the cool leather seat back either side of Blaine's face, bracelets casting pink and yellow and blue across his skin. He leaned in, no longer moving his hips, and twisted his hands into Blaine's hair to drag him close enough that he could smell Negroni. Kurt licked along Blaine's bottom lip and then took it between his teeth, eyes unblinking. There was a flash somewhere in his periphery, and Kurt could feel his entire consciousness disappearing inside a world where the ground was darker than just before the dawn and the sky over his head was a tawny amber that always reminded him of sweeping leaves in the fall._

“Oh, god,” Kurt said, covering his face with his hands. “Oh _god_ , I gave you a lap dance in front of _everyone_.”

“Keep walking,” Blaine said sympathetically, watching the man with the boombox stride further and further away, taking Air with him. He placed his hand at the small of Kurt's back and gently guided him forward. “It's not like anybody apart from us and our friends saw. Don't freak out.”

“Easy for you to say. I don't _do_ things like that, Blaine,” Kurt protested, his head feeling thick and fuzzy under the weight of recollection.

“Hey,” Blaine said, letting his arm slip around Kurt's waist, “you felt great, right? And you had a good time?”

Kurt nodded. “Yes, but—“

“You were _insanely_ hot, too,” Blaine interrupted matter-of-factly, as if commenting on the weather. Kurt smiled to himself, and thought better of arguing his point any further.

Another thirty minutes saw them stepping inside Schwartz Travel Services, no closer to solving the mystery key chain or tiki pins (none of the text messages they'd received in reply had been able to shed any light), though Kurt wasn't really lamenting the fact, wondering if some stories were best left undiscovered. Instead, he was beginning to feel excitement at what could be waiting for them, and he sped up to match Blaine's quickened pace. They approached the counter and handed over the key to the clerk behind the desk, who smiled and led them through to a room filled with small locker. Once left alone, Blaine gave the key to Kurt and gestured towards locker 28, directly in Kurt's eye line. He looked about ready to burst with excitement, and it was the first thing that tipped Kurt off to the fact that the key wasn't something Blaine had woken up with: it was something he'd been holding on to. He pushed the key into the lock and turned, letting the door swing open. As he did so, he let out a gasp and covered his mouth with his hand.

Blaine had painstakingly recreated Kurt's locker at McKinley, complete with miniature postcard art, Mardi Gras beads and figurines, and the 'courage' collage (the only different being that the photograph had changed from Blaine's Dalton picture to the photograph from their first prom together).

“Blaine, how—this is _incredible_ ,” Kurt breathed, tracing his fingers over the collage. “What is all this for?”

Blaine smiled, and nodded back to the locker. Kurt looked inside to see a thick white envelope propped up, and on the front was written _'Mr. Kurt Hummel-Anderson-To-Be'_. Tentatively, he picked it up, eyes coming to rest upon the object that had been keeping it upright: a small, replica lighthouse. Brow furrowed, he returned his attention to the envelope and slid his thumb beneath the flap that had been tucked carefully inside. He could feel Blaine's eyes on him, and his hands trembled as he took out the envelope's contents, feeling more than a little overwhelmed. The entire past week had been one big game of mystery and intrigue, and he still had no idea what to expect next. It felt like a throwback to when they had first started dating.

When he unfolded a flight itinerary and two sets of tickets fell into his palm, his jaw dropped. “The Maldives?” he asked breathlessly, and happiness swelled up in his chest at Blaine's answering nod. It had been Kurt's number one honeymoon destination. White sandy beaches, crystal clear ocean, huts built on stilts out over the water. It was a disappearing paradise, and while Kurt had never been one for vacations in the sun, he had wanted to see it while he still had the opportunity. “Blaine, I... How are you even _real?_ ”

Blaine ducked his head at that, before reaching inside the locker and retrieving the lighthouse. He balanced it in his hand and held it up front of Kurt. “Clue,” he said quietly, and it all finally clicked into place. Kurt's eyes welled up and he took a step back, dropping heavily onto the wooden bench when he felt it against the back of his knees. Blaine knelt in front of him, and Kurt found that he couldn't quite look him in the eye.

“How did you book it at such short notice?” he asked, a little breathlessly.

“Cancellation,” Blaine answered, thumbs rubbing circles just above Kurt's knees. “Too much?”

“Always,” Kurt replied, laughing a little and biting his lip as he sighed and reached forward to pull Blaine forward, head against his chest.

“Change?”

“Never.”

*

“Do you think we'll ever figure out the key chain, or the pins? Or why I woke up in Central Park?” Kurt asked when they finally arrived home. He had two fingers looped into the back pocket of Blaine's jeans, the digits of his other wrapped around the lighthouse, thumb rubbing against it absently. Blaine hummed a kiss underneath Kurt's jaw, and Kurt could feel the smile against his skin. “I think I'm going to freshen up a little. And check for bruises.”

“I should probably do the same. My ass hurts every time I move,” Blaine confessed, turning to set down his bag on the end table just inside the door and pulling out the tiki mask pin, pausing to look at it thoughtfully.

“Mine too,” Kurt said offhandedly, before the tiki pin caught his attention. There was a singular, horrifying moment when he finally remembered where it had come from, and judging by the mortification written all over Blaine's face, he was remembering, too.

“Kurt...”

But Kurt was already running for the bedroom, unbuckling his belt and almost tripping over in his haste to push off his jeans. Blaine was hot on his heels, mirroring Kurt's motions. Once fully divested of their pants and underwear they shared a bracing breath, turned their backs to the mirror, and looked over their shoulders. Memories flooded Kurt's mind: lying down on a table; Blaine giggling into his ear; a constant, high-pitched buzzing; a sensation not unlike Blaine's fingernails scratching across his skin; everywhere the motif of tiki masks in the shop called _Tiki Tattoo_.

“Fuck,” Kurt ground out, breaking his long silence. “ _'Property of Blaine'_? Whose idea was that?”

“Yours, if I recall,” Blaine replied quietly, brushing his fingers across his own tattoo—reading _'Property of Kurt'_ instead—and wincing at the slight sting.

“Oh god, it _was_ my idea,” Kurt groaned, bending quickly and yanking his clothes back on as fast as he was able. “All right. All right, we need to—we need to just find a clinic, where we can get them removed. I've heard it's painful, but—“

“Hey, hey,” Blaine shushed him, gently putting his arms around him and rubbing circles into his back. “Calm down, we've got time. I don't think there's anything we could do about them right now; they'll need time to heal. And anyway...”

“Anyway, what?” Kurt prompted, pulling back a little. Blaine gave an awkward half-shrug.

“I don't know. I kind of—honestly, I kind of like it,” he admitted, and Kurt looked at him skeptically. “Look, I know you and I are forever. I _know_ that. So why not? It's not like anyone will ever see it but us.”

Kurt sighed heavily. “Why do you always have to make everything so damn sweet? I have _ink_ on my skin. Permanently.”

“Ink that says you're mine,” Blaine practically purred, and Kurt backed away even further, already feeling himself beginning to crumble.

“I have an appointment to make.”

*

_Saturday 27 August, 2044_

“I'm glad you canceled your appointment,” Blaine whispered, looking from the tiki pin to Kurt, who smiled at his husband affectionately.

“Me too.”

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen - I Do, Part B (Forever And Always)**   
_Wednesday 28 August, 2019  
6:00am_

“Rise and shine, little brother!”

Blaine groaned and turned over, rubbing his hand over his eyes. “Uh-uh. Bed warm,” he mumbled into his pillow. The scent of coffee floated over from the other side of their room at the Hotel Chelsea, and despite his desire to go back to sleep, he could feel himself growing more awake.

“Come on! Up, up, up!” Cooper exclaimed cheerfully, and suddenly the covers were ripped from Blaine's grasp. His eyes shot open, most definitely wide awake, as his body was assaulted with the chill, conditioned air. He blinked, curling in on himself to try and retain some warmth, and Cooper waved a steaming mug under Blaine's nose before setting it on the bedside cabinet.

“Mmph. What time is it?” he rasped, sitting up to roll his neck and shoulders before stretching his arms above his head. He winced at the sound of his bones cracking and settling, and briefly wondered if he was getting old.

“Six,” Cooper said as he pulled back the drapes and opened the doors out onto the balcony. “Come on, up. Come and watch the sunrise.”

Blaine sighed—his brother had inherited their parents' capacity for not only tolerating, but enjoying early starts, whereas the gene seemed to have skipped him entirely—and shuffled out after Cooper, taking his coffee with him. Cooper was already reclining into his own patio chair when Blaine pulled his own over, dropping heavily into his seat and hooking his toes underneath the wrought-iron guard. It was already warming up, and the report he pulled up on his BlackBerry told him that the weather would be beautiful. All that was left to do was wait.

Blaine blew over the surface of his coffee and had drunk almost half of it before the taste caught up with his sleep-muffled brain. He swallowed with a splutter. “Coop, is there booze in this?” he managed in between coughs.

“Bailey's,” Cooper told him, thumping his back for good measure. “Thought maybe you could use some courage.”

“I'm not nervous,” Blaine said, and switched his mug with Cooper's.

The thirty minutes that followed was spent mostly in a comfortable silence, simply taking in the view of New York coming back to life after its brief slumber. The sounds of car horns and killer heels coupled with the scents of breakfast and gasoline floated up to greet them, and Blaine briefly raised his coffee to the brightening horizon, offering up a silent 'thank you and good morning' in reply.

*

_7:10am_

“Kristy, if you don't get out of bed right this second, I will cast the entire contents of your wardrobe into the Hudson. And I will feel _good_ about it,” Kurt spat at the blonde, who simply stretched luxuriously and pulled herself upright at an agonizingly slow pace.

“Rein it in, Hummel,” she said with a smirk, “save it for the friendly neighborhood bitch.”

“Santana's not even awake yet?” Kurt exclaimed, and turned on his heel to march into the living room, filing away Kristy's satisfied grin in the back of his mind and vowing to turn it all back on her whenever she decided to settle down and it was the most important day of _her_ life. He'd been up since around 5:30, having slept fitfully without Blaine's familiar warmth curling around him like a cocoon. He had dressed quietly and took a cup of tea up to the roof, sitting in one of the many rickety, abandoned chairs and watching the sunrise over Manhattan, wondering if Cooper really had made good on his promise to make sure Blaine was doing the exact same thing.

As with all wedding days, however, the minutes were running away from him and he _did not have time for this shit_. Blaine had given them a schedule, and Kurt was going to stick to it if it was the last thing he did—the final item on the schedule was _'3:00pm - marry me! :)'_ and, Kurt mused, if that was the last thing he ever did, he'd die a happy man indeed.

“Santana, we have breakfast and spa reservations at _Le Parker Meridien_ and if you try to come between me and my egg-white frittata today of all days, I will—“ Kurt stopped abruptly as he reached the living room and took in the sight of Santana sitting on the couch, fully dressed and leafing through a magazine with her pillow and blankets from the night before neatly folded over the arm.

“I'd be more worried about your so-called maid of honor, if I were you,” she said with one eyebrow raised, and for what he was sure wouldn't be the first time that day, Kurt's fists clenched at his sides and he unfurled them, one finger at a time, to a count of ten.

*

_10:27am_

Clearing his throat, Wes got to his feet and raised his glass. “I'd just like to say a few words before Coop steals the show later,” he began. Along with Toby and Andrew, the reassembled Warbler collective turned their attention toward him, as they had done so many years earlier within the confines of mahogany surroundings and navy and red polyester blazers. Wes no longer wielded a gavel, yet still he commanded their attention with the ease of a natural born leader. Turning to Mrs. Anderson, who was seated between her sons and looking about to burst with pride, he continued, “Mrs. Anderson, you've clearly raised two fine young men and I'd like to take this opportunity to thank you. Blaine is still one of my best friends, and as much as I would have liked to be the one setting examples, he was often the one giving _me_ advice.

“Blaine, you're the first of us to get married. I know I speak for all of us when I say that we are so proud of how far you've come and everything you've achieved. The relationship and the love that you share with Kurt is something that I know we all aspire to. We are all so happy for you. We all knew this is where you'd be one day.”

Wes raised his glass high over the center of the table. “A toast to Mrs. Anderson, and to Kurt and Blaine. Long may you all live happy and fulfilling lives. Cheers!”

“Cheers!” repeated everyone seated around the table, and Blaine smiled at his mother, squeezing her hand affectionately.

“Your father would be so proud of you today, Blaine,” she said, reaching up to straighten his tie.

“I wish he was here,” Blaine replied, his throat suddenly feeling tight. “He... How did he feel about us? About Kurt?”

Fiona laughed and shook her head. “Oh sweetheart, he loved that boy. Lord knows he had trouble accepting your orientation, but he always liked Kurt. I remember...”

“Remember what?” Blaine prompted.

“That night after Kurt's graduation, when he came to dinner, and he was talking about going to NYU. His grand plan,” Fiona said, and Blaine bit back a laugh as he recalled the various incarnations of Kurt's Fabulous Five-Year Plan, all painstakingly laid out in a bright red, sequinned journal. “I think William was impressed that he was always thinking so far ahead, and that he always included you. He could see that you were never an after-thought, never taken for granted. He knew how much you love one another, and how much happier you are with Kurt. Did I ever tell you that we made a bet?”

“What bet?”

“We made a bet as to when you were going to propose,” she said, smiling at the memory.

“And?” Blaine managed, hooking a finger behind his tie and tugging until the pressure eased a little. At Toby's concerned glance from across the table, he shook his head, smiling tightly.

“I owe him ten dollars when I catch up with him,” Fiona answered, a far-away look in her eyes. “He was no saint, your father. But he loves you, and he respected you. He knew you'd never make this decision rashly, or for the wrong reasons.”

“I really wish he was here,” Blaine repeated. Fiona simply nodded, and patted his chest just above his heart.

*

_12:49pm_

“But what if—“

“Rachel.”

“I'm just—“

_”Rachel.”_

“Okay, but—“

“Rachel, _shut up!”_ Kurt ground out through his teeth, somehow managing not to crack his face mask.

“If you keep on, I _will_ take you to the carpet,” Mercedes called over from the manicure station, and Rachel sank back into her seat with a put-upon expression, glancing down every few seconds to check the pedicurist's work. “Kurt, everything is gonna be perfect. It's _Blaine_. Don't let mini-Streisand over there worry you.”

“I just thought it might be a good idea for Kurt to prepare himself in case it's not everything he's been hoping for,” Rachel said quickly. “After all, he and Blaine have very different tastes. I think we _all_ learned that during Kitchengate last year.”

Kurt's jaw clenched beneath the mask, and he tightened his grip on the armrests. Thankfully, Kristy seemed to notice, finally stepping up to the plate and proving why he'd chosen her as maid of honor.

“That's enough, Tiny Dancer,” she drawled, waving a hand in Rachel's direction. “Blaine's done amazing work, and Kurt is going to love it.”

Rachel seemed to consider Kristy's words for a moment, before shooting Kurt a smile that was almost beatific in its radiance. “I'm sorry, Kurt. You know what I'm like.”

“And any other day I would appreciate the reality check, but today I'm getting married,” Kurt replied after his beautician had begun sloughing off the face mask.

“Do you remember that sleepover? The one where I asked you what you would have said if Blaine had asked you to marry him, right then and there?” Rachel asked. “What would you have said?”

“I don't know,” Kurt said honestly, and all four of the girls shot him disbelieving looks. “I don't! Maybe I would have said yes. He has this way of looking at me, even if he's asking me something so simple. Like if he wants me to pass the salt at dinner. There's something so... He always looks so hopeful, even when he's not trying to. It makes it impossible to say no. And if any of you ever tell him that, I will throw _all_ of your wardrobes into the Hudson, not just Kristy's, and I will feel _amazing_ about it. Especially yours, Rachel.”

“I think you would have said yes,” Mercedes intoned. “I mean, you guys had your ups and downs, but even back then everyone could see you were perfect for each other. You're really lucky, Kurt.”

At that moment, Kurt's phone beeped in his pocket. “It's from Blaine!” he exclaimed giddily, and Santana and Kristy crowded in behind him to glance over his shoulder. He read aloud, “my bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.”

Rachel gasped softly, her palm to her chest. “He's perfect, Kurt. You're so lucky to have found him.”

“I know,” he whispered, bringing the phone to his lips. “I know.”

*

_2:33pm_

As Blaine stood in front of the full-length mirror in The Lighthouse's Hudson Suite, he paused to consider the fact that it was the last time he would do so and see Blaine Anderson staring back. In an hour's time, he would catch his reflection in a darkened window or polished champagne flute and Blaine Hummel-Anderson would be looking back. Instead, a married man—a husband—would be looking back.

All around him was a flurry of activity: Cooper was ensuring the groomsmen knew their cues; Wes was liaising with Rachel over the phone; Zara was fussing with his hair and his mother was handing out the boutonnieres, all of it seemingly in double-time. He knotted his tie, every movement practiced and easy, and vaguely wondered if Cooper had slipped a Xanax into his coffee along with the shot of Irish creme. Blaine had managed to hold on to their peaceful start to the day, and as he observed the insanity surrounding him with a sense of calm detachment, he had the sensation of being some halcyon island in the middle of a roiling sea.

Unfastening his watch, he set it down on the small end table beside him and watched the seconds count down.

*

_2:52pm_

Kurt held his untouched glass of champagne to his chest as he paced the length of the room. He had been dressed in his beautiful charcoal Westwood ensemble for well over thirty minutes, and all that was left for him to do was have a little patience. Carole was running between rooms to make sure everyone was presentable (and, in Finn's case, staying that way); Rachel was talking on the phone in a hushed voice with Santana listening in, and Burt was being lectured on the important differences between satin and silk by Kristy and Mercedes. He cast Kurt a helpless look, which Kurt returned with a quirked eyebrow and a half-shrug as if to say, “you asked”.

Every so often, he pulled his phone from his bag and slid the screen across until it was devoid of apps, and the picture of Blaine asleep in their bed was all he could see. Each time, he found himself letting out a contented sigh, feeling the weight of truth behind the knowledge that despite the vows he was about to make, nothing except his name was going to change. He would still spend mornings waking up to Blaine's soft rumble of breath in his ear; he would still spend his lunch hours exchanging text messages about the morning's events; he would still spend those evenings in the apartment when Blaine was away working comforted with the knowledge that wherever he was in the world, be it California, Melbourne or Tokyo, their love still paid no attention to such boundaries.

Once more, he locked his phone and set it back in his bag. For the first time since Kristy thrust it into his hand, he took a small sip of champagne.

*

_3:00pm_

_Ready?_ Cooper's look from the end of the aisle asked, and Blaine didn't need to pause to consider the question. He thought that maybe he'd been ready, had loved Kurt, before ever meeting him.

Ready, his nod replied, and he stepped behind the piano that had been set up behind the archway and seated himself, flexing his fingers and testing the pedals. A hush fell over the mass of guests in attendance as he flicked the microphone's switch to ON, and after taking a moment to center himself, [he struck the first chord](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yAUMU3QQE6w). His version of the song was adapted from a beautiful, stripped-down cover of the original, and he'd needed only a verse's worth of listening to settle upon it. How could he have ever chosen anything else?

_”I think you're pretty without any make-up on,  
I think you're funny when you tell the punchline wrong,  
I knew you got me when you let your walls come down, down,  
Before you met me, I was alright but things were kinda heavy,  
You brought me to life, now every February  
You'll be my Valentine, Valentine.”_

_*_

_3:02pm_

_”When you're around me, life's like a movie scene,  
I wasn't happy until you became my king,  
I've finally found you: my missing puzzle piece,  
I'm complete.”_

The song was almost at the halfway point and Kurt was dangerously close to tears. Rachel and Wes, Mercedes and Jeff, Santana and Cooper, and Kristy and Finn had all disappeared inside the hall and Kurt could hear them providing a soft and lilting harmony layered beneath Blaine's heartfelt vocals. He gripped Burt's arm tightly with the fingers of his other hand pressed firmly against his mouth.

“It's time, kiddo,” Burt said gruffly, and pulled Kurt into a careful yet crushing hug. “You make sure you never let him go, okay? With him, I don't have to lose a son.”

“Oh god, Dad, I get to marry him,” Kurt whispered, and Burt held him tighter for a moment before stepping back and wiping at his eyes, sniffing hard.

“He's what your forever looks like, Kurt. So go get him.”

*

_3:03pm_

Blaine's eyes were fixed upon the entry, beyond which he knew Kurt had his fingers gripping the inside of Burt's elbow, waiting to make his appearance. With his fingers he played the chords and with his voice he sang of a love that was the reason there was light in his world and laughter in his heart. Beyond that entry was the man of his dreams, dreams that he got to hold onto even after he opened his eyes.

_”You make me feel like I'm living a teenage dream  
The way you turn me on, I can't sleep  
Let's run away and don't ever look back  
Don't ever look back.”_

And there he was. There was only a half-beat between lyrics, yet time seemed to stop as Kurt rounded the corner on Burt's arm and paused mid-step to take everything in. His eyes roamed over the high ceilings, the ornate chairs, the aisle scattered with petals, before finally finding Blaine at the piano through the archway draped in white silk, cherry blossom and lilacs. Just like that, Blaine's every nerve was alight and he was flying. His voice was stronger, his heart was racing _(like the song)_ and Kurt was walking towards him with the most affirming smile Blaine had ever seen.

_”And my heart stops when you look at me,  
Just one touch, now baby I believe this is real,  
So take a chance and don't ever look back,  
Don't ever...”_

_*_

_3:04pm_

Even as Burt hugged him once more, Kurt couldn't take his eyes away from Blaine, seated behind the piano and singing like it was the last song he would ever perform. In his periphery, he could see Rachel and Mercedes wiping their eyes as they harmonized, and everywhere there were smiles. They were surrounded by boundless love and it wouldn't have ever mattered where or when they did this because he was Blaine's, and Blaine was his, and it might already have been forever before Kurt woke up that morning but now it was _forever._

_”I will get your heart racing if that's what you need,  
In this teenage dream tonight,  
Let you rest your head on me if that's what you need,  
In this teenage dream tonight.”_

There was a brief silence where they simply looked at one another, drank each other in, and then the entire congregation burst into cheers and applause. Blaine stood, stepped around the piano and walked purposefully straight towards Kurt. As the officiant took her place beneath the archway, Kurt took Blaine's left hand in his right and cupped the back of Blaine's neck with the other, smiling as he brought their foreheads together and not even daring to blink in case he missed something.

“Bye, fiance,” Blaine whispered.

Kurt chuckled, because as always, he knew exactly what Blaine meant. “Bye, fiance.”

*

_3:24pm_

_This is what forever feels like,_ Kurt thought. He glanced down at their joined hands and then back up into Blaine's eyes; still nothing had changed, and it had all begun with fingertips brushing a shoulder and a glance on a staircase. At Abigail's instruction, he turned to Finn and took Blaine's wedding ring, Blaine mirroring the motion with Cooper. Facing each other once more, they held their rings between pressed palms, unable to keep from smiling.

“Now, in addition to traditional vows, Kurt and Blaine have written their own,” Abigail said. “Kurt, would you like to go first?”

Nodding, Kurt squeezed Blaine's hand a little tighter. “Luck is a funny thing,” he began, having rehearsed his personal vows so many times at that point that he could have married Blaine in his sleep. “You and I have had a lot of luck in our lives, but I count myself the luckiest to have found you. Maybe it was coincidence, maybe we were fated, but every day that I wake up in your arms I remind myself how lucky I am. Some people spend their entire lives searching for the love of their life, and I thought I'd be one of them. But then, one not so extraordinary high school day, there you were. And here you still are.

“You support me without question, you push me to try when I'm scared that I'll fail, you love me without rules or boundaries or expectations. You're the best man I've ever known. I'm so lucky to be here today, with our life ahead of us, and I can't wait for it to start. I love you, Blaine, and I'm proud to become your husband.”

The happiness and warmth in Blaine's eyes was so concentrated, so potent that it was all Kurt could do not to lean forward, rest of the ceremony be damned.

*

_3:27pm_

Blaine's senses were on overload. The comforting, joyously intermingling scents of sakura and lilac petals scattered around them; Kurt's soft hands holding onto his own tightly enough for the rings contained between them to leave two perfectly circular indentations on his palm; Kurt's eyes unwavering from his own, streams of sunlight picking out flecks of cerulean and olive and ocher; the words of Kurt's vows weaving a golden trellis of love and protection around his very heart; the taste upon his tongue flavored with Sunday mornings and hyphenated surnames and housewarming parties and a lifetime with—Kurt had put it perfectly—the best man he had ever known. It was completely overwhelming, and in the best possible way.

He shifted from one foot to the other, re-centering his gravity, and cleared his throat.

“Kurt, you're the love of my life. I said those words for the first time to you when we were just kids, when deep down we were still so unsure of so many things. But standing here in front of you today, I realize that even then, I knew. I knew that someday we would be doing exactly this,” Blaine said, looking deep into Kurt's eyes and holding his hands just a little tighter. “You're the love of my life, and so much more. You're my best friend, my confidant, my anchor. You're the reason I wake up warm, and the reason I fall asleep smiling.

“Everyone's been asking me lately if I'm nervous, and I thought I was going to be, but I'm not. I woke up this morning feeling so at peace, so ready for this. This is where we were always meant to be. You're my soulmate, Kurt. My everything. You were my first love, and it makes me so much happier than I could possibly articulate that you'll be my last. I love you so much, and I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Unable to resist a moment longer, Blaine stepped closer and cupped Kurt's cheek, thumbing away the single tear that had slipped out. They both smiled, and Penny's camera flashed, capturing the moment.

“Now Kurt, if you'll place the ring upon Blaine's finger. Blaine, if you'll do the same, and both repeat after me,” Abigail intoned.

“I take you to be my husband,” they repeated in unison, voices breathless but equally as strong, “my partner in life and my one true love. I will cherish our union and love you more each day than I did before. I will trust you and respect you, laugh with you and cry with you, loving you faithfully through good times and bad, regardless of the obstacles we may face together. I give you my hand, my heart, and my love, from this day forward for as long as we both shall live.”

“By the power vested in me by the state of New York, it is with great pleasure that I declare you legally married,” Abigail announced, her smile wide and proud for them both. “You may now kiss.”

Kurt's mouth had already met Blaine's by the time Abigail had finished speaking, and Blaine felt it all the way down to his toes. His wedding band was warm and perfect against his skin, and he couldn't help but sigh into the kiss he'd been waiting so long to give and receive.

“Hello, Kurt Hummel-Anderson,” he murmured against Kurt's lips when they broke apart, their friends and family applauding them. “I love you.”

Kurt stepped forward and wrapped himself around Blaine, holding on so tightly that Blaine could no longer tell where he ended and Kurt began. “Hello, husband,” Kurt whispered into his ear. “I love you, too.”

*

_6:19pm_

When the last plate had been cleared from the last table, one of the wait staff approached the top table carrying a microphone, and handed it to Burt with a smile. As Burt cleared his throat and stood, Kurt refilled his and Blaine's glasses before settling back into the arm around his shoulders, relaxed and sated and completely happy.

“Ladies and gentlemen, my name's Burt Hummel, and I'm Kurt's dad,” Burt began, standing slightly behind Kurt and squeezing his shoulder. “Those of you who know me know that I'm a man of few words, which I guess is a good thing when you're just the warm-up act. I'll make this short, but Blaine, Cooper, if I bore 'em to sleep, that's your problem.”

There was a smattering of laughter at that, and Kurt smiled at his father encouragingly—he was nervous, despite the years he spent giving speeches as a Congressman.

“First of all, I just wanna thank my son-in-law, Blaine, for all of his hard work,” Burt continued, and Blaine couldn't keep the grin away at the new affectation. “If you'd asked me a month ago if I knew someone who could pull off a perfect wedding in three weeks, I'd only ever have thought of Kurt, because he _has_ done it. But Blaine's proved me wrong, so here's to him.”

Kurt turned and pressed a kiss just beneath Blaine's jaw, fingertips curled back against the front of his shirt, and mouthed 'thank you' against his skin.

“Every dad raises their kid knowing that one day, they're gonna outgrow you. They'll move out, find someone, maybe get married, and end up with this whole life that's separate from yours. And that's okay, you know, that's the way it's supposed to happen. The best any dad can hope for is that their kid finds The One; that person who makes them happier than they ever thought they could be. Not every dad expects it to be their kid's best friend who, two weeks before they start dating, comes around encouraging a father-son “birds and the bees” talk...” Burt trailed off with a sidelong glance at Blaine, though there was only fond amusement in his eyes, “but honestly, these two are a perfect fit. They challenge each other, they support each other, and they complete each other. These two? Take a long look, because they're what forever looks like.

“Now traditionally, I'm supposed to give you advice on marriage, but you kids have been together for eight years already. Hell, you were practically married after just one,” he joked, turning to face them fully. “You two have served your apprenticeship and paid your dues, so what I'll say is this: marriage is a partnership. Always remember to put each other first. Fall in love over and over again with each other. And never, ever, go to bed in the middle of an argument. Be a man, stay up and fight. One of you has to lose anyway so you might as well get it over with. Love each other with acceptance and forgiveness, like you always have.

“Here's to your past, for all that you've learned,” Burt said, and all of the guests followed his motion and raised their glasses. “Here's to your present and everything you have, here's to your future, and everything you've got to look forward to. Here's to Kurt and Blaine.”

“To Kurt and Blaine!” the guests chorused, followed by a soft harmony of clinking glasses. As he had been doing all throughout dinner, Kurt raised his own glass to Blaine's lips, and smiled when Blaine responded by mirroring his actions. They shared another brief kiss, and Kurt could taste the dry, sweet champagne undercutting the bitter decadence of the dark chocolate and raspberry gelato they'd had for dessert. Squeezing Blaine's shoulder reassuringly at the nervous huff of breath he let out, Kurt handed his husband the microphone.

“Ladies, gentlemen and gatecrashers,” Blaine began, his leading man stage persona coming to the fore, “thank you all for being here today. Kurt and I appreciate and love you all more than we can say, and just to let you know, you can now call off those nice men in the white jackets I saw hanging around the pier earlier.”

“I'm on it!” Kristy called, making a show of speaking into her wrist, and Blaine gave her the thumbs-up with a wink.

“I won't bore you with a bunch of old, stale jokes, because that's Cooper's job,” Blaine continued, grinning as he paused for the quiet laughter to subside. “I do need to make you all aware, though, that Coop suffers from a very rare condition that causes him to live half his life in a fantasy world. Sometimes he even makes up stories, and absolutely believes them to be true. It's only right that I advise you of this ahead of his speech. I wouldn't want him to get upset, so if you could humor him, I'd appreciate it.”

Kurt batted at Blaine's hand half-heartedly and shared a despairing look with his mother-in-law, before catching himself and thinking, _I'd feel so old right now if I wasn't so happy_.

“But seriously, I do have an awful lot of you to thank for all your help, so I'll try and keep it brief. Firstly, to those of you who dropped everything to be here today, I realize it was all very last-minute, so thank you. Second to Kristy, Toby and Andrew—you three kept me from going completely insane throughout this entire process, and I owe you a huge debt of gratitude. Third, to the bridesmaids and groomsmen, you all look fantastic and thank you so much for all of your help.

“Last but never, ever least,” Blaine said a little more quietly, turning to Kurt and joining their left hands, “thank you to my incredible husband. Kurt, you're my best friend, my soulmate, and everything in between. You showed up today even though you had no idea what to expect, and you show that same faith in me every single day. The best piece of advice I ever received was from my grandmother, Lily. She told me, 'don't marry the one you can live with, marry the one you can't live without'. And that's you, Kurt. You're it for me, and I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Kurt wasn't aware of his own tears until Blaine was kissing them away, and he took hold of his lapels to pull him in for a crushing kiss. “I love you so much,” he whispered, moving his hands up to frame Blaine's face. “I can't wait either.”

Silently, Blaine sat back down and passed the microphone on to Cooper before pulling Kurt into his arms and sighing into the warmth of his neck.

“Well, Blaine told me his speech would be a hard one to follow,” Cooper said, getting to his feet and pulling a thick sheaf of cards from his jacket pocket. “You were right, B, it _was_ hard to follow.”

Instantly, the mood in the room shifted and a lighthearted tone was set for the rest of the evening. Cooper knew how to work a crowd, and since his return to practicing law, he had only improved.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to thank all of you for being here today—especially those of you who knew I'd be giving a speech. It's really very touching that you still decided to come. Now, I read somewhere that a best man's speech shouldn't take any longer than the time it takes the groom to make love.” Cooper checked his watch, exhaled deeply, and continued, “so ladies and gentlemen, I give you Kurt and Blaine Hummel-Anderson!”

With that, Cooper took a sip from his glass and sat down, and laughter erupted around the room. Blaine was about to reach over and punch him on the shoulder, but Cooper was already standing up again. “For those of you who don't know me, I'm Blaine's big brother, Cooper. It's both a great and dubious privilege to be asked to be the best man at a wedding. I say dubious because it's like being asked to make love to the Queen—even though it would be a real honor, you're really not sure you want to do it. But there's nothing I wouldn't do for Blaine, and likewise there's nothing Blaine wouldn't do for me. In fact, we spent most of our lives doing nothing for each other.”

“It's true!” Blaine called out, and Kurt couldn't contain his laughter at the double act that was the Anderson brothers.

“I'd like to thank all of you again for being here today. Groomsmen, thank you for arriving sober. Bridesmaids, thank you for getting Kurt here in one piece—I understand he put up a struggle. You all look stunning by the way, and for the record, I am very much single and in room 529,” he joked, and Blaine could have sworn he saw him wink at Kristy. “I'll voice what we're all thinking by congratulating the happy couple. Some people are just made for one another, which is certainly true of these two, and I couldn't be happier that Kurt found Blaine. I say Kurt found Blaine because of my brother's abject cluelessness when it came to his own feelings. I'm assured that everyone here knows _that_ story, so I won't bore you with tales of my brother serenading other guys in clothing stores.”

Kurt bit his lip and glanced around at Blaine, whose ears were flushed a deep pink at the tips.

“When I told him that I was having some trouble with this speech, Kurt was kind enough to give me some do's and don'ts. The list included: don't swear,” Cooper continued, and threw one of the cards down onto the table to uproarious laughter, “don't tell inappropriate jokes.” Two more cards were thrown away. “Don't tell lies.” Another card was discarded. “Do tell mostly positive stories about Blaine,” Cooper finished, and tossed away the rest of the cards, shoving his hands into his pockets and looking, for a moment, like he had nothing further at his disposal.

After a brief pause, he reached into the other jacket pocket and pulled out a single card, studying it intently. “Blaine is... witty, intelligent, ch—I'm sorry, B, what does that say?” he asked innocently, holding the blank card under Blaine's nose. “Kid's always had terrible penmanship, so I guess he can just tell me later.

“One piece of advice I'd like to give to my brother is to first set the ground rules. Establish who's boss,” Cooper said seriously, clearly pausing for dramatic effect. “And then do everything Kurt says.”

Fresh laughter erupted around the room, and Kurt gave Blaine a brief look as if to say, “don't even think about disagreeing with him” before laughing along with the rest of the guests.

“In all seriousness, though, I spent the better part of the past three weeks worrying about this speech. But what it really all comes down to is that nobody else could be standing here right now and feel more proud, more honored to be able to represent Blaine on this, the most important day of his life. Once again, thank you all for being here, and one last time I'd like to ask you to raise your glasses. Kurt, Blaine, may your love be modern enough to survive the times, but old-fashioned enough to last forever. Cheers,” Cooper toasted.

The guests' glasses clinked in symphony once more before applause broke out around the room as the former Warblers stood and made their way to one end of the dancefloor.

“And now, for the first time, I give you Kurt and Blaine Hummel-Anderson!”

Smiling, Kurt and Blaine walked hand in hand into the middle of the dancefloor and began swaying in time to [the quiet harmony](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FvzNeh4Mq1o) provided by the collected Dalton alumni.

 _“My love must be a kind of blind love,”_ Nick sang as he stepped forward, and Blaine rested his head on Kurt's shoulder as they turned in place. _“I can't see anyone but you. Are the stars out tonight? I don't know if it's cloudy or bright. I only have eyes for you, dear.”_

Blaine's hand was warm and heavy at the nape of his neck, and so Kurt disregarded their rehearsed dance in favor of a tight embrace, wanting instead to feel Blaine's heart beating at the pulse point in his jaw, the way the muscles of his back flexed and shifted with each movement, and he closed his eyes to take it in and wish briefly that life had a pause button. He couldn't recall ever feeling so much in love that he could disappear into it, that his every cell could dissolve into a rush of tawny hazel and become part of the very air he breathed.

 _“You are here and so am I, maybe millions of people go by,”_ the Warblers were singing, and Blaine hummed along quietly before pulling back an infinitesimal amount to take him in, his eyes deep and so intensely searching that Kurt's breath stilled in his chest the second before Blaine swept away the space between them and leaned up to gently lay claim to his lips. _“But they all disappear from view, and I only have eyes for you.”_

_*_

_9:01pm_

Brushing away a tear, Kurt let out a pealing whistle as Mercedes took a brief bow and beamed at him from the stage. He had never been prouder of her than in that moment, even when he and Blaine had been sitting at home months earlier and finally received the call from Mercedes, telling them that her third single—a soaring, orchestra-driven cover of Tuck and Patti's _Take My Breath Away_ —had entered the Top 40 at number one. She had dropped everything to be at the wedding and perform it in their honor, proving beyond all doubt that theirs was a friendship built to last.

“Thank you so much, everybody,” she said into the microphone.

“We love you, Mercedes!” Andrew shouted out from the back of the room, words slurring a little, and Kurt turned back in time to see Toby wrestling him down into his seat and moving the large wine glass out of his reach before smiling apologetically at the people nearest.

“I love you, too!” Mercedes called back with a giggle, before focusing on the crowd. “I wanted to be here today to sing that song for Kurt and Blaine, because they've always been such an inspiration to me, as a person and as an artist. Their love is something that I believe in with my whole heart, and they've always been so strong, right from the beginning.”

Palm to his heart, Kurt caught Mercedes' eye from where he sat alone at his table and blew her a kiss. After catching and returning it, she turned her head to the side and nodded with an excited smile, and Kurt grinned as the Warblers began filing onto the stage.

“And speaking of the beginning, there's a lot of us here today that were there for it,” Mercedes said, gesturing as the Warblers arranged themselves in formation behind her. The hall grew quiet and Blaine finally climbed onto the stage, slipping back into the ranks with the same ease as pulling on an old, well-worn pair of faded jeans. “For one night only—until the next reunion, that is—please welcome the Dalton Academy Warblers!”

Kurt let out another whistle, Quinn and Santana pulling him onto the dancefloor as the hall filled with the soft opening bars of _Hey, Soul Sister_ and the Warblers owned the stage with their reclaimed doo-wopping glory. The performance became an energetic mash-up that had Kurt bouncing on the balls of his feet with the rest of the guests on the packed dancefloor, breaking out his shimmy, sashaying around Rachel and side-stepping with Sugar and Tina. Brittany and Mike were doing the mambo in front of the stage, effortlessly finding their feet together even after so many years spent with other dance partners. Beneath the bright lights, the Warblers spun on their heels and segued into _Silly Love Songs_ , and Kurt blushed hotly as Mercedes pushed him forward and everyone pointed at him, singing the words “I love you”. Blaine leapt from the stage like he was Johnny Castle, and Kurt recognized the familiar beat-boxed bassline as the song transitioned into _Animal_.

Blaine danced through the crowd toward him, singing, _“here we are again, I feel the chemicals kicking in, it's gettin' heavy and I wanna run and hide, I wanna run and hide.”_ He swept Kurt into a stiff tango stance, nodding for him to pick up his old cue.

 _“I do it every time, you're killing me now,”_ he sang, pleased that he could still pull off the growling roughness, and Blaine linked both of their hands and spun them around like they were back on a lit-up floor as they sang the refrain together. _“And I won't be denied by you, the animal inside of you.”_

With one pull they were toe to toe, and Blaine took a deep breath before letting his voice soar again. _“And if you have a minute why don't we go, talk about it somewhere only we know, this could be the end of everything, so why don't we go somewhere only we know.”_

Kurt closed his eyes, felt Blaine take his hand and fleetingly brush his lips across his wedding ring, and then he was bopping his way back to the stage in time to end the song with his arms raised, belting out a repetition of _“raise your glass!”_ The girls converged on him, whooping and cheering their applause as the Warblers bowed.

“Encore!” Rachel shouted, and Blaine waggled his eyebrows. Cooper strode onto the stage and gathered everyone at the back, turned away from the guests.

“What's going on?” Mercedes asked to his right, and Kurt shrugged one shoulder, craning his neck to try and get a better look.

“I don't know,” he said, eyes trained on Blaine's back. “Apart from the last dance tonight, I... Oh, sweet mother of—“

The Warblers were still in their huddle, but began [tapping out a rhythm](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HgzGwKwLmgM) with their feet as Blaine and Cooper spun around, sporting Freddie Mercury mustaches and singing, _“tonight, I'm gonna have myself a real good time, I feel alive, and the world is turning inside out, yeah, I'm floating around in ecstasy, so...”_

 _“Don't stop me now,”_ joined in the rest of the chorus, five or six turning on each word until all of them were facing the guests, most of whom were doubled over with laughter at the sight of the straight-laced prep school boys all wearing matching mustaches and looking entirely ridiculous.

“What is it with those guys and fake facial hair?” Kurt asked Mercedes as she wiped away a tear. She tried to be serious for a moment but it was a lost cause and Kurt waved her off, giving in and grabbing Santana to dance.

He caught Blaine's eye on the line, _“I'm a sex machine ready to reload”_ , he and Cooper thrusting their hips forward in time to the beat, and Kurt's jaw went slack as they all feigned the shakes and threw their arms to the side, exclaiming, _“about to whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa explode!”_

“Oh my god,” Santana sniggered. “You realize what you've just married into, right?”

“Yes.” Kurt nodded, his expression mock grave even as he returned Blaine's ridiculous wink. “Yes, I do.”

*

_10:53pm_

It was fast approaching 11p.m. and Wes had long since assumed command of the laptop connected to the sound system, taking the opportunity to blast classic Top 40 along with some guest requests—Blaine's personal favorite moments had been when Wes managed to get everybody up on their feet and dancing the timeless, genius moves of the _Macarena_ and the _Cha Cha Slide_.

“What is that, the fifth time now?” he asked Kurt, loosely holding his hand where it rested over his shoulder. Mercedes had just approached Wes again, and he'd pulled her behind the speakers in front of his booth to point out something on the screen to her. Blaine watched as his old mentor, ever the gentleman, placed his hand at the small of her back and leaned in to say something close to her. Mercedes laughed and averted her eyes shyly, and Wes looked completely taken with her.

“Must be the seventh,” Kurt replied with a barely-contained snort.

“Nothing like a wedding to bring people together,” Blaine mused, thinking of how he'd seen Kristy and Cooper sneaking off ten minutes earlier. Looking around, he took in the sight of their friends; friends that had scattered across the four corners of the country and beyond, all reuniting to celebrate him and his husband. Tina and Mike, Burt and Carole, and Toby and Andrew were slow dancing below the undulating lights. Sam, Puck and Finn were chatting and laughing with Flint, Thad and David by the mostly empty buffet tables. His mom was at one of the tables further back, talking with Jason, Stuart and Jeff. Rachel, Santana and Brittany were whispering and pointing over to where Quinn sat deep in conversation with Artie, who was looking just as quietly, secretly smitten as he always had back at McKinley.

He sighed contentedly as the song came to an end and everyone seemed to vacate the dancefloor at once, leaving only Tina and Brittany. Blaine saw Mercedes striding away from Wes and shooting back a thumbs-up. The next thing he knew, Kurt was on his feet and tilting Blaine's face upward.

“Surprise, husband,” he said cryptically with a fast kiss, and then he was stalking across the floor to take his place between the girls and strike a pose.

Blaine's bewilderment vanished when [a beat kicked in](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4m1EFMoRFvY) and they all began stepping from side to side, knees bent, one hand up and the other planted firmly on the hip. Kurt mouthed the words _“all the single ladies”_ with Tina and Brittany as his echo, and when everyone's attention was captured, Rachel and Mercedes joined them, followed by Quinn, Sugar and Santana. They danced and rolled their hips seductively all the way through the first verse, and then Blaine's dopey grin turned to a jaw-drop as not only the male ex-New Directions members joined in, but so did most of the Warblers.

Kurt's mouth curved up into a wicked and sly grin as they all turned to the side and patted their asses. Toby, Andrew, Stuart, Jeff and Lori soon slotted themselves in amongst the group, and Wes nodded when Blaine gestured to ask, “did you know about this?”

Kurt led the group over to him as the song got closer to the end, and pulled him up to settle his hands on Blaine's hips, swaying him in time with the old choreography and brand new meaning.

 _“Pull me into your arms, say I'm the one you want,”_ Kurt sang, eyes dark and fixed.

“Put a ring on it, didn't I?” he replied wryly. Kurt laughed and kissed him, and they turned to watch their friends finish the dance. “I can't believe you organized a flash mob for me.”

“You go crazy over them every time a new one shows up on YouTube,” Kurt said, and Blaine couldn't help but kiss him again, because forever with this man was never going to be enough time.

*

_11:46pm_

_Forever._ It was the word that Kurt couldn't get out of his mind, nor did he want to.

The majority of the guests had begun taking their leave at around 11:00, needing to be at work the next day, and those visiting New York and staying in hotels had booked cabs for 11:30 to avoid past-midnight fares. Burt had left with Carole and Finn a few minutes earlier after pulling them both in for another of his bone-crushing hugs and telling them how proud of them he was.

Kurt shivered pleasantly as Blaine's breath ghosted warmly across his neck, and he dropped his head to rest on Blaine's shoulder, fingers creeping beneath the loosened collar of his crisp white shirt. They were the only two left, swaying mostly silently in the middle of the dancefloor, Blaine occasionally whisper-singing lines from _Teenage Dream_ , kissing and touching and just being with one another as they wound down from the emotion of the day.

“Today was so perfect,” he whispered.

“It's not over yet,” Blaine replied, and Kurt could hear the smile in his voice. He hummed and pressed his lips to Blaine's neck, letting his eyes drift closed as he simply rested there for a moment.

“Take me home, please,” he sighed contentedly.

*

_Thursday 29 August, 2019  
12:17am_

As they half-walked, half-jogged through the lobby, ties loose and faces flushed from the limo ride, the night guard grinned at them knowingly and Blaine felt like a teenager all over again. Kurt crowded him into the back corner of the elevator as they ascended, latching onto his earlobe and sucking softly in between a litany of whispered affirmations. Blaine's hands roamed across the smooth linen of Kurt's shirt, palming his shoulder blades and interlinking his fingers.

When they got inside the apartment, they found a trail of white and red rose petals leading away from the door and into the bedroom. Propped up on the coffee table was a bottle of champagne with a card reading, 'Enjoy. Love, Kristy & Cooper'.

“Do you think they—“

“Oh, I definitely think they,” Kurt said, flipping the card over and smiling. Blaine read over his shoulder that Kristy had picked up McQueen to stay with her while they were away, and to have a great time. He let out a sigh, dipping his head to the back of Kurt's neck. “Shower, husband?”

Blaine grinned and worked his fingers into the back of Kurt's hair. “Yes, husband. You know, I don't think I'll ever get sick of saying that.”

“Hmm, me either.”

They made quick work of showering; a practiced dance-and-shift they'd had perfected since back in the college days, when fifteen extra minutes in bed curled around one another had taken precedence over mostly everything else. Blaine climbed out first, taking with him a couple of extra towels, a new bottle of lube and a handful of condoms—they had mostly stopped using them a few years earlier, and despite the all-clear from the tests they'd paid through the nose to have fast-tracked after the lingering unsolved mysteries from their bachelor party, it was already late and they had an early start. Blaine wanted this to be slow, lasting, and not have to worry about cleaning up when instead he could make use of that extra time.

While he waited for Kurt, Blaine toweled himself dry and set everything in easy reach on the bedside before slipping beneath the covers in an attempt to stave off his shivering. It wasn't until Kurt finally appeared around the doorway, leaning against it and smiling at him for a moment, that Blaine realized he wasn't shivering because of the cold.

Kurt crossed the room, pulling off the towel wrapped around his hips, and slid in next to Blaine until they were flush against one another, pressed together from chest to hip with legs tangled at the knee.

“You're shaking, husband,” Kurt murmured, rubbing up and down Blaine's arm. “Are you cold? I could—“

Blaine shook his head, traced the backs of his trembling fingers along Kurt's collarbone and nuzzled against his jaw. “I'm just—I'm so happy right now that it's kind of terrifying.”

Kurt's kiss was light, fleeting. “It's just us. You and me.”

“Come here,” Blaine whispered, and pulled Kurt into a soul-searing kiss, one that he tried to pour every last ounce of his love and affection into. He kissed Kurt exactly like he had the very first time; gently, slowly, tentatively. Kurt cupped his cheek—exactly like he had the very first time—and finally Blaine believed it, trusted it, and gave into it. He let himself fall into the kiss headfirst, climbing on top of Kurt and slotting his knees either side of Kurt's hips as he settled his weight onto the arm that rested on the pillow over Kurt's head. Kurt's hands gripped at his shoulders and upper arms before traveling over the planes of his back, fingers kneading into the muscles and holding on like he never wanted to let go.

“I love you,” Blaine whispered, trailing his mouth down the column of Kurt's neck and along his collarbones, leaving butterfly kisses in his wake. “You're mine, and I love you so much.”

“Hmm. Yours,” Kurt repeated, tracing circles into his scalp and flexing his fingers through Blaine's hair just how he liked it. Lightly, Blaine moaned into the touch and shifted himself further down Kurt's body, flicking his tongue over the tightened nub of his nipple. Kurt gasped quietly, and his grip on Blaine's hair tightened and body leaning into the contact as Blaine slowly began moving against him, controlled circles of his hips down onto Kurt's, barely any real movement at all but enough to make them both hold on just a little tighter.

“Will you—“

“Yes,” Blaine breathed, before claiming his mouth fast and hard, the atmosphere between them shifting—imperceptibly, but just the right amount. It was all that Blaine needed for the trembling to finally subside, and he surrendered himself to the bright, crackling burn of want sweeping through him.

Sliding down between the fingertips pressed against his sides, Blaine peppered Kurt's chest and torso with nips and kisses. Kurt trailed his hands across the line of Blaine's shoulders and tightened his grip when Blaine lightly licked across the head of his cock before taking it into his mouth, moving slowly and causing Kurt to gasp as he pulled off with a feather-light rake of his teeth along the sensitive flesh.

“What do you want?” he asked quietly, thumb circling the inside of Kurt's thigh.

“All of you,” Kurt breathed.

Blaine surged forward and caught Kurt's lips in a feverish kiss, moaning a little when Kurt reached between them and gripped him tightly, his palm dry yet soft and guiding. They moved together slowly, no disturbances, nowhere they needed to be except right where they were. Languid glory, trading knowing kisses and light touches, and Blaine was soon coating his fingers and moving down the length of Kurt's body, once again taking the weight of him on his tongue and pressing a finger inside.

“Blaine,” Kurt whispered, rolling his hips upward when Blaine added a second, then a third, working him over with slick heat and strong hands. “Please... More.”

Gently, Blaine released him and sat back on his haunches, taking the condom Kurt held out and sheathing himself as Kurt loosely stroked his own cock.

“Turn over,” Blaine said, scooting up on his knees as Kurt did so. He leaned them both forward, running his hands over the cool gooseflesh of Kurt's arms and linking their left hands together. As Blaine grasped his hip and pushed inside, Kurt brought up both hands to brace himself against the headboard, groaning when Blaine rested flush against his back.

“I love you so much,” he said, the tail end sinking inside a moan as Blaine began to move—not yet pulling out, simply circling their hips together—and took hold of his other hand, leaning all of the way forward to kiss the nape of Kurt's neck and breathe.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” he whispered in reply, wrapping his left arm around Kurt's waist and holding him tightly. Blaine pulled back, and they moaned together as he buried himself again. Kurt's fingers curled tighter between his own each time, and his breathing grew ragged and close on Kurt's skin.

“Fuck,” Kurt ground out, pushing back and letting go of Blaine's hand to sit fully upright, gripping his thighs as he started to ride. Blaine groaned beneath the weight and brought his hand up to cover Kurt's heart, mouthing and licking at the meeting of his neck and shoulder and wrapping his cock in a blanket of touch and twist and up-down, up-down.

“Kiss me?” Blaine asked, his voice little more than a whisper, and Kurt shifted, still moving and gasping over hitched breaths whenever Blaine hit that sweet, sweet spot at his core. He laced his fingers through Blaine's damp hair and craned his head back to lock their lips together, sloppy and mismatched, but a kiss perfect in its imperfection.

“Baby, right—yes, there—oh, don't stop,” Kurt pleaded.

“Need to see you,” Blaine murmured, and their rhythm slowed to a stop. Kurt pulled off slowly before turning around straddling Blaine's thighs, eyes screwed shut as he sank back down with his nails dug into Blaine's shoulders. “Okay?”

“God, yes,” Kurt answered as he opened his eyes, holding Blaine's in an invisible vice grip. He started to move again slowly, gradually speeding up and pistoning his hips in figures of eight that made Blaine's own motions become jerky, his breathing erratic. The heat and pull settled in his spine was moving, twisting, roiling and expanding, spreading through him steady as a lava spill.

“Kurt, I—jesus, fuck,” Blaine moaned, his fist pumping Kurt faster and faster, eyes still locked which only made the pressure build further.

“Blaine, just—one more,” Kurt managed, and Blaine thrust up one last time and cried out as his entire consciousness reeled back from the force that hit him, dimly aware of nails on his scalp and liquid warmth hitting his skin.

He came around piece by piece, the air seeming close and thick as Kurt cradled his face and kissed his eyelids.

“That was...”

“Intense,” Blaine supplied, his breathing harsh and labored.

“I'll say. I think you might have blacked out for a few seconds,” Kurt told him with an air of satisfaction, shifting slightly uncomfortably. Scraping the bottom of his last energy reserve, Blaine supported him as Kurt lifted himself off and to the side, peeling off the condom and dropping it into the waste basket. They collapsed back against the pillows with a sigh, Blaine pressing a kiss to the top of Kurt's head where it lay on his shoulder.

“Thank you for marrying me,” he murmured, eyes closing.

“Thank you for asking,” Kurt replied through a delicate yawn.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, husband,” were the last words Blaine heard, and he took them under with him into a boneless, dreamless sleep.

*

_8:47am_

**@WayfaringBlaine:** Morning, guys. Guess who got married yesterday? ;)


	16. Lobster Sandwiches and Lazy Shores

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** This chapter PG-13  
>  **Spoilers:** None.  
>  **Warnings:** None.  
>  **Disclaimer:** I paint the pictures; I just borrow the names.  
>  **Notes:** Eternal gratitude to my brilliant beta/cheerleader/all round enabler, Rachie. This chapter was originally written back in March for [iconicklaine](http://iconicklaine.tumblr.com) on her birthday, and has now been revised, expanded, and nicely slotted in right here. Head on over to my [Tumblr](http://borogroves.tumblr.com)—check out my [Snapshots Masterpost](http://borogroves.tumblr.com/snapshots) for lots of behind-the-scenes goodies. Enjoy!

**Chapter Sixteen - Lobster Sandwiches and Lazy Shores**  


_Saturday 27 August 2044_

Kurt's fingers traced the outline of the hearts in the next photograph, having had no words of his own for their wedding pictures. The memory of that day still left him momentarily speechless every time he thought of it, even after twenty-five years of that same yet impossibly growing love and devotion, through the good times and the bad.

"Married by thirty," Blaine quipped.

"Legally," Kurt sing-songed, taking himself back to one not-so-extraordinary first day back at McKinley after a summer spent trading kisses and touches, everything still new and a little tentative. "That was the happiest day of my life."

"Mine, too," Blaine agreed, before wiggling his eyebrows. "Apart from the honeymoon."

"And the twins being born."

"The day we got your results from the last—" Blaine began, a tight and wistful smile on his lips.

"Someone's skipping ahead again," Kurt interrupted, briefly squeezing his husband's hand before turning his attention back to the photograph of four inter-linked hearts on a window, cutting through a fog of exhalation onto the glass. "How long do you think these lasted?"

"Forever, of course," Blaine said matter-of-factly, and though Kurt knew Blaine would have caught his intended meaning, his answer wasn't any less true.

*

_Monday 3 July 2023_

“Blaine.”

“Mmh.”

“Blaine.”

“Sleeping.”

“Blaine, wake the fuck up _right now_.”

“Jesus. Okay, I'm awake. What is it?”

“The cat.”

“The cat?”

“He has another bauble.”

“Ugh. It's _July_. Where the hell does he keep finding them?”

“I don't know. But it's driving me crazy.”

“We need to get away and blow off some steam. What do you say?”

“Yes. Yes, but right now, I have to be up in two hours. Can you please just—“

“I'm on it. Go back to sleep, babe.”

*

_Saturday 8 July 2023_

Enjoying the heat beating down upon his skin juxtaposed with the cool breeze playing through his fingers, Kurt turned to his husband and smiled, the scent of salty sea air getting stronger. Lightly, they held hands over the center console as Kurt drove; touching just for the sake of touching. They needed this, having spent so little time together as of late. Kurt was working all hours, at the office and at home—Vivienne was retiring at the end of August, and Kurt was of course the natural choice to replace her. The label would be continuing under the banner of her name, but she had told him he was free to re-brand it in whatever way he saw fit.

“Versailles?” Blaine had attempted during their most recent brainstorming session.

“Too much like Versace,” Kurt had replied wearily, pinching the space between his eyes for the tenth time in as many minutes.

“How about your last name? Your ranges have always been under your own name. I've spent years wearing clothes by Kurt Hummel.”

“Hummel-Anderson,” Kurt reminded him, “but it's a little too middle-America for worldwide consumption.”

“And Valentino could be middle-Italy,” Blaine pointed out. Kurt had rolled his eyes skyward before giving Blaine a _look_.

“Valentino was born in Voghera; definitely not middle-Italy. There's no such _thing_ as middle-Italy.”

“How about just 'Kurt'?”

“Kurt Geiger.”

“Well... how about something that's not already a name? I mean... you're always saying that your clothes tell a story, so what about something like 'libretto'?”

“Libretto,” Kurt had repeated, trying it on for size, rolling it around in his mouth to see how it tasted. “I... I think I love it.”

As for Blaine, when he wasn't being ushered from interview to photo shoot to gig to meet-and-greet, he was writing songs for his third album like something possessed, having only a few months until he'd be doing a six-week run at the Abbey Road Studios in London (something else to top off the giant pile of blessings making both their heads spin). Between all of that, they'd had hardly any time to themselves in months, aside from a couple of scattered Sunday afternoons.

Yes. They needed this.

It wasn't long before Kurt was pulling up in the parking lot of the Montauk Yacht Club Resort and Marina, and the next few minutes were spent in a flurry of suitcases, checking in, and being shown to their waterfront bungalow. Once inside, Blaine fell face-first onto the large bed, flicking on the air-conditioning and turning his head to watch Kurt glance appreciatively around the room.

“Did I do good?” he asked wryly.

“You did,” Kurt told him, lingering by the window, fingertips resting lightly on the sill.

“Go on,” Blaine said at Kurt's questioning glance.

Kurt leaned forward, exhaling breath onto the window in a foggy cloud, before drawing two perfect, inter-linked hearts with his index finger. The first time he'd done it, on their honeymoon, he'd told Blaine the story of how his mother had done the exact same thing on her wedding night, she and Burt falling asleep with moonlight picking out the smears on the glass. Satisfied, he straightened and backed up towards the bed before flopping down next to Blaine, fingers absently playing with the hem of his t-shirt. “Hi.”

“Hey, you,” Blaine replied, and Kurt shifted so that he was the little spoon. “I've missed you. I've missed this.”

“Me too,” Kurt breathed in relief. “I'm sorry I've been so wrapped up in work lately. I've been neglecting you.”

“It's just as much me,” Blaine said, slipping his arm underneath Kurt's neck and around his shoulders, squeezing tightly. “But let's not think about all that now. This weekend is about us. No work.”

“Would you play me some of your new songs?”

“Maybe later.” Blaine moved closer, brushed his lips across the nape of Kurt's slender neck before reaffirming, “I've _missed_ this.”

“We do this every night,” Kurt replied, his voice light.

“I mean—“

“I know. I just tell myself we do this every night. Makes me miss you a little less when you're only in the next room.”

“We're both here now,” he whispered, and they fell back into one another like it had been no time at all.

*

“I wasn't expecting that,” Kurt said as they neared the restaurant, shoes beating out a loud rhythm against the wooden decking. Blaine shot him a congenial smile.

“I was happy enough just to make out with you. It's not my fault I'm so irresistible.”

“Modest, too,” Kurt bantered, and it was so easy to forget that they'd barely had time to talk, to really be with each other in months.

“Modesty's overrated,” Blaine replied quietly, like it was a secret he shouldn't be sharing, and wrapped his arm around Kurt's waist. “You know, I forget sometimes how much you can wear me out.”

As they reached the restaurant, he held open the door and ushered Kurt inside with a hand at the small of his back. They kept a running tally; Blaine's turn, then Kurt's, and so on—an unspoken rule to which neither of them had ever needed to draw attention. It was easy between them; it always had been. It was when they began to drift that they stumbled; their worlds had foundations in one another.

“Where did you learn that thing you did?” Kurt asked as they waited at the service podium in the lobby. “Have you been reading that book again? Or talking to Jeff? I can't really decide which would be worse, to be honest.”

“I don't know what you're talking about. I just have natural skill and aptitude,” Blaine said, though the tips of his ears flushed pink, and Kurt had to bite the inside of his cheek to stifle a laugh. Nearly five years of marriage, and Blaine could still throw him for a loop.

“Welcome to Inlet!” a bright voice said, and they turned to see a petite brunette in a navy blue t-shirt and black skinny jeans striding toward them. “Table for two?”

At Kurt's answering nod, she gathered two menus from the podium. “If you'll follow me,” she said graciously, and lead them upstairs to the spacious dining room, the back of her shirt emblazoned with the motto, 'respect the ocean, harvest the bounty, feed the people'.

The waitress—whose name tag read 'Annelise'—seated them at a table by one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, and Kurt watched his husband take a moment to absorb the truly breathtaking sunset over the harbor. The sky was a swirling mass of pinks and oranges that sparkled on the ripples of undulating water as the tide slipped lazily toward the shore. It was suddenly so clear why the locals affectionately referred to the place as 'The End'; if the location itself hadn't already proven it, the spectacular vista in front of him certainly did.

“Beautiful, isn't it? It's impossible to get used to,” Annelise intoned gently, removing a pad of paper and a pen from her back pocket. “Can I take your drink orders?”

“French Martini for me, please,” Kurt answered her, having only given the drinks menu a cursory glance. She scribbled quickly, before tapping the pen against her pad and looking at Blaine questioningly.

“I think I'll go with the Sunset Cosmo,” he said finally, waving his hand toward the window, “it's got me in the mood.”

Annelise laughed, making a note of the order. “I'll be right back.”

Kurt leaned back into his seat and hooked one of his feet around Blaine's as they both looked over their menus in a silence so comfortable, so familiar, that he was startled when Blaine suddenly shot up in his chair and grabbed his hand.

“They have a Blackbird Roll,” he exclaimed, the words coming out in a rush. “Kurt, they have a Blackbird Roll! How perfect is that?”

Kurt smiled and shook his head, perusing his own menu and squeezing his husband's hand. This was a side of Blaine that was reserved only for him. At work, he was passionate yet professional. With friends, he managed somehow to fit whichever mold was expected or natural; he slipped from dapper Dalton alumnus to slightly grittier McKinley graduate to witty and easy-going boxing buddy with practiced ease, but this Blaine—this personification of pure, undiluted, child-like glee was the one side of himself to which only Kurt was privy.

When Annelise returned, he ordered the Blackbird Roll.

*

“I mean, how perfect is this? We're drunk right now and we're on _Gin Beach_ ,” Blaine said happily, his words running underneath and between one another. Neither of them had eaten much at dinner, having succeeded in sweet-talking Annelise into persuading the chef to prepare them some lobster sandwiches to take away with them (they'd tipped _very_ well).

“Correction,” Kurt murmured, staggering slightly as Blaine leaned on him in order to stay upright, “we're a little drunk.”

“We're a _lot_ drunk,” Blaine argued, shaking his head before breaking into a fit of giggles when he almost lost his balance. Kurt dug his heels into the impossibly soft, velveteen sand.

“Okay, here's good,” he said, and set down the bag containing the sandwiches and bottled water. Gently, he nudged Blaine aside, and spread out one of the blankets he'd brought along. He tugged on Blaine's hand, and as they laid back to stretch out, Kurt was struck by the sheer number of stars he could see. It was peaceful; there were no houses or businesses nearby, and the only sounds were waves gently lapping along the shore. The sky was wide open, expansive, instead of boxed and framed by skyscrapers.

When he was settled with his head resting on his husband's shoulder, Blaine's fingers idly running through his hair, he pointed up. “Look, there's the Andromeda galaxy. Did you know that it contains about four hundred million stars?”

“Nerd,” Blaine whispered playfully, pressing a kiss into his hair. “Makes me feel small.”

“Well, if we're going to play _that_ game...” Kurt trailed off, his fingers creeping along the collar of Blaine's shirt.

“We're not,” Blaine said firmly, but there was humor and warmth there. “Can we stay here forever? Just the two of us, always?”

Kurt paused, then. There was something that had been tugging at the back of his mind for the past few months. Sitting up, he dropped his hands into his lap, looking out over the water cresting in the light of the half-moon. Slowly, Blaine raised himself into a sitting position, his hand feather-light at the small of Kurt's back.

“Kurt?”

“Does it have to be just the two of us?” he asked, carefully.

“It's not like there's anyone else, right?” Blaine replied, his tone light. He looked at Kurt, then back out at the ocean. A long moment passed, and then Kurt could practically see the ducks lining up in a row as Blaine turned back towards him, his gaze fixed and entirely sober.

“Imagine... Imagine coming up here with our kids. Someday,” were the whispered words of an idea that Kurt was finally ready to realize after months of feeling that _something_. It pulled and twisted at a place deep in his gut whenever he saw couples pushing prams containing tiny bundles of new, perfect life. It made him smile at the sight of kids running around Central Park, leap-frogging over one another and playing hopscotch across invisible grids on the grass. It was what had brought undeniable tears to his eyes when he had held his niece for the first time, her tiny fingers wrapped around his thumb and her nose the same shape as Finn's. There wasn't some huge, gaping hole in their lives... Just something missing.

“Someday? I mean, is that... Is that an abstract 'someday' or an actual 'someday'?” Blaine began, continuing before Kurt had a chance to formulate his response. “You know that I've always wanted kids. Especially with you. But we've always been so... content with just each other.”

Kurt took Blaine's hand between his own, licking his lips and taking a deep, bracing breath. “I want a family with you,” he said. “You're right; for a long time we've been content just us. And that hasn't changed, but lately I feel like I've been seeing kids everywhere, and it got me thinking that maybe we're ready to start talking about it.”

“You're not... Worried about how much our lives would change?” Blaine asked, turning his hand to grip Kurt's tightly, like he was trying to take hold of a dream that was threatening to slip away if he didn't grasp it firmly enough.

“Terrified, actually,” he admitted, ducking his head a little before returning Blaine's affectionate smile. “When I look back on all the adventures we've had and everything we've done together, that's just us. Young, and in love.”

“And when you look forward?” The question was almost inaudible, but there.

“I can see us, sharing that love,” Kurt answered, his voice strong and absolutely clear in what he wanted. “The thought of sharing you used to scare me, but it—it doesn't, anymore. It hasn't for a while. It's something that I _want_. I want us to have a family. I want a miracle that's ours; some little curly head that I can tuck up in bed and kiss goodnight—“

“No, no way,” Blaine interrupted, and for a terrible moment Kurt felt like the ocean itself was closing over his head and stealing all vestiges of breath from his lungs. “No, they have to have your hair. Mine's impossible, you know that. Would you really want to inflict that on some poor, defenseless little kid? Can't you imagine the tantrums when it comes to brushing their hair?”

Kurt could feel every cell in his body simultaneously reaching a place of absolute rest and repose. “Fine,” he conceded, “but they have to have your smile.”

“Your eyes,” Blaine whispered, cupping Kurt's face at the temple and thumbing across his eyelid, disturbing the gathering moisture.

“Can't believe you claimed that one,” Kurt muttered through a smile. “Your kindness.”

“Your fashion sense.”

“Your adorable dorkiness.”

“Your heart,” Blaine whispered, leaning forward and dropping his hand to feel the racing in Kurt's chest.

“Your soul,” Kurt answered, closing his eyes and the distance between them, sealing their unspoken promise with a kiss. It was new, and heavy with a future that was unplanned, unsought, yet a future that had somehow always been there waiting to be discovered. Kurt breathed his essence into Blaine and took Blaine's back for himself; sunset cosmopolitan mingled with a first glance on a staircase, blood oranges and triple sec and the vows he thought of every day.

“They,” Blaine murmured, his voice low. “Is that 'they' as in we don't know what we want, or because we want more than one?”

“Two.”

“One of each?”

Kurt nodded wordlessly, and there was a beat of silence that was broken by Blaine's stomach growling loudly. Blaine closed his eyes and inhaled through his teeth before glancing sheepishly at Kurt. “Hungry?” his husband asked.

“One cup of clam chowder, Kurt. _One cup_ ,” Blaine practically whined in response, and Kurt laughed as he dragged the soft cool-bag closer. They'd brought it with them partly for this reason (”You can't go to Montauk and not have lobster sandwiches on the beach, Blaine!”), and partly because there was no way Kurt could foresee a happy ending to the awful stop-and-go traffic into the Hamptons without access to a plentiful supply of cold water (for him) and Diet Coke (for Blaine).

“What kind of parents do you think we'll be?” Kurt asked, handing over one of the sandwiches. Blaine took a small bite and chewed thoughtfully.

“Good ones, I hope. I wanna be a cool dad. Like Phil Dunphy,” he said with a slight nod to himself, and Kurt couldn't help but smile.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

After taking a bite of his own sandwich and holding back a groan as the taste of heaven wrapped in toasted sesame seeds washed over his tongue, he said, “wait. Does that make me Claire?”

“Well, you do make a lot of lists.”

“Blaine.”

“I'm just saying.”

*

Kurt cast one last glance around the room to make sure they hadn't forgotten anything, and his eyes fell upon the smudged hearts upon the window, caught in the midday sunlight. Smiling, he crossed the room and breathed over the glass. He retraced the two hearts he'd drawn the previous day, before adding two smaller interlinked hearts underneath. Blaine's arms slipped around his waist and they stood still for a second, both seeing doors swinging open before them.

“We should buy a place out here. Somewhere to bring the kids on weekends.”

“That's a good idea. Especially if you keep winning awards left and right. We're running out of room,” Kurt joked, settling back. “Maybe we could look when we get home.”

“How about somewhere in Southampton, maybe?”

“Maybe.”

“Dad?” Blaine asked, and the pregnancy of the question gave Kurt shivers.

“I think I'd prefer Papa. But we'll see,” he answered, turning in the circle of Blaine's arms. “What about you?”

“'Dad' sounds good to me. Really good.”

Before leaving the room, Kurt rummaged through the outer pocket of Blaine's dark holdall and took the camera over to the window. He adjusted his position until he was standing at just the right angle, and—click!—the four hearts signifying their family-to-be were immortalized.

Yes. They had definitely needed this.


	17. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** This chapter PG-13  
>  **Spoilers:** None.  
>  **Warnings:** None.  
>  **Disclaimer:** I paint the pictures; I just borrow the names.  
>  **Notes:** Eternal gratitude to my brilliant beta/cheerleader/all round enabler, Rachie. Head on over to my [Tumblr](http://borogroves.tumblr.com)—check out my [Snapshots Masterpost](http://borogroves.tumblr.com/snapshots) for lots of behind-the-scenes goodies. Enjoy!

**Chapter Seventeen - Interlude**  
 _Saturday 27 August 2044_

“Would you say it was Montauk that changed everything, or that Christmas?” Blaine asked thoughtfully, eyes trained upon the picture of him and Kurt simultaneously kissing Kristy on each cheek. It had been taken on Boxing Day not five feet from where they sat—Carole had whipped out her camera mere minutes after Kristy announced that she wanted to be their surrogate. _We were all so young,_ he mused, taking in the unwrinkled faces and hair without a trace of gray. Of course, Kristy still hadn't yet gone gray—or if she had, she was doing a fantastic job of covering it.

“I think it was just that entire year,” Kurt said. “A lot of big changes happened, all at once. And we changed along with them. That's why we kept the blog.”

“You're right.”

“When aren't I?”

“True.”

A brief silence settled in the close space between them, and Blaine let his gaze roam across the grounds at the front of the house (he'd never been able to call the wide expanse of grass and greenery a 'yard'), watching fireflies dance through the blooms on the rhododendron bushes across from the cherry tree that they planted above McQueen's ashes in 2031. It was certainly true that he and Kurt had lived in two apartments, along with the town house in Cobble Hill they bought shortly after their wedding where they still spent most of their time, but this over-the-top and grand, yet cozy and beautiful house had always been the place that Blaine had felt most at home, and he knew it was because they bought it with the intention of having a get-away, somewhere to spend weekends with their kids. Now that it was empty once more, save for the two of them...

“Honey, what's wrong? You're about to break my fingers.”

Kurt's voice cut through Blaine's reverie and he immediately loosened his grasp, not even having realized that he had taken Kurt's hand. “I think it just hit me that they're gone,” he said quietly, slumping in his seat and letting his chin drop to his chest. “I _miss_ them.”

Kurt marked their page in The Book with the fortune from his cookie (given the fact that they were spending the evening lost in their memories, they had both smiled upon reading, _sometimes the object of the journey is not the end, but the journey itself),_ and moved to crouch in front of Blaine, forearms on his knees and chin resting upon them.

“I'm looking into a mirror,” he sing-songed with a wry smile, and Blaine huffed a humorless laugh, toying with the sleeve of Kurt's cardigan.

“What was it that I said to you yesterday, when their cars were just turning out of the gate?” he asked, voice heavy.

“You said, 'our daughter's going to be President and our son's going to be the best doctor in the whole world. They're both going to be amazing, but in order to do that, they have to be set free',” Kurt answered. “It's true, you know, and you've helped me see that tonight.”

“It's bullshit,” Blaine grumbled. “I want them back.”

“Language,” Kurt said, using his sharp and authoritative 'Papa' voice before catching himself and shooting Blaine a look that bordered on awe. “Oh my god. We can _swear.”_

Finally, Blaine's smile contained a little mirth, and he took Kurt's hands to steady him as he slowly returned to a standing position.

“Let's go inside,” Kurt said. “It's getting chilly and we're at the last picture.”

Blaine stretched his arms above his head, suppressing a yawn. “What time is it?”

“Does it matter, honey?” Kurt asked softly. Blaine shook his head, picking up The Book from where Kurt had set it down and letting himself back into the house with Kurt close behind, carrying their glasses and the bottle of wine.

As he locked the door and set the alarm, he felt Kurt's hand brush across his shoulder and he smiled to himself, listening to the soft sound of Kurt padding up the carpeted stairs. He paused in front of the switch for the porch light—thinking back, Blaine couldn't recall a single instance in the past eighteen years that it had been turned off while they were there. Fingers flexing before the innocuous plastic fixture, he finally thought better of switching it off. Some small, sad part of him was still holding a flickering candle of hope that the twins would come bursting through the door any minute, Audrey with her nose buried in a copy of _The New Republic_ and Oliver clutching thick medical volumes that would leave Blaine wide-eyed and wondering how he ended up with two such intelligent kids.

Sighing heavily, he toed off his shoes at the foot of the stairs and lined them up neatly next to Kurt's. Another light switch for the foyer, and his hand stilled again as his eyes came to rest upon the oldest frame in the series that progressed with the incline of the winding staircase—the very staircase that had sold them on the house in the first place, with its similarities to what they came to call 'their' staircase back at Dalton. The colors had faded with time, and there was still the errant blur of a clumsy finger in the bottom right corner, but there they were—Kurt on his back, covered in sand with nine-year-old Audrey and Oliver dog-piled on top of him in the middle of their ruined beach fort, all caught mid-laugh and looking so young and free.

Blaine took the stairs slowly, leaning on the banister, and for once it was nothing to do with the age in his bones that he could feel gradually creeping up on him. His eyes roamed over the photographs, the immortalized moments that could so easily have been lost or forgotten, and he relived them all as he went. Himself on stage presenting the VMAs; Audrey at eleven, holding up a poem she had written emblazoned with an A+ in red ink; Kurt reading lonely, eight-year-old Oliver a bedtime story while Audrey was away at her first ever sleepover; one of the holiday portraits that Kurt insisted on every year, the teenaged twins (fourteen? Fifteen? Blaine had lost count) both caught mid-yawn and Blaine grinning playfully at his less-than-impressed husband.

When he reached their cozy library, Kurt was already in the small storage closet, his scrap-booking caddy propping the door open while he pulled a box marked 'For The Book' from the top shelf. Blaine watched him quietly from their shared mahogany desk, shifting and settling into his chair—the ugly, ergonomic one that Oliver had insisted upon rather than the black leather executive chair Blaine had been eyeing since May.

“Your back's already bad enough, Dad,” he'd said with perfect authority, as if he'd been a practicing chiropractor for thirty years rather than an eighteen-year-old who, days earlier, had run into the kitchen clutching his acceptance letter from Johns Hopkins.

Later that night, Audrey—ever the diplomat—had kissed him on the cheek and whispered that even though the executive chair looked really cool, her boyfriend Dylan's masseuse mother was always telling her about the sheer number of high-powered stockbrokers and CEOs she had on her table day in, day out. “I think you should buy the ugly chair, have Papa make it look good, and take all the money you'll save on massages and buy that Les Paul you look at in every new issue of _Guitar World.”_

For all that they were twins, for all their secret languages and created universes, Audrey and Oliver were polar opposites in some ways—a perfect yin and yang that balanced one another. They'd been as hesitant to leave one another as they had to spread their wings and leave home.

“They're so smart, aren't they?”

Kurt plopped the box down on top of the caddy and wheeled it over to the desk after closing the closet door with a soft click. “It's your brains they inherited, Mister Dalton Academy,” he mused, but before Blaine could protest, he continued, “I never had the head for numbers that Ollie does. And Aud's charm and diplomacy is all you.”

“She got your hair, though,” Blaine joked. “I think Ollie's always hated me a little for that.”

“It didn't help that you started calling him 'Twist',” Kurt replied, a grin tugging at his lips. “He'll never shake that, you know. Everyone will call him 'Doctor Twist'.”

“Ah, he likes it. Audrey told me,” Blaine said, with an almost satisfied smirk.

“He actually admitted it to her?” Kurt asked incredulously. Their son was stubborn as a mule when he wanted to be, and never gave an inch if it meant losing face.

“Not as such. But they have their freaky twin ESPN thing, so I trust her,” Blaine said, placing The Book between them in the center of the desk. “I know tradition dictates that we do this sitting cross-legged on the floor, but—“

“Oh God, no,” Kurt cut across him, shaking his head vehemently as he dropped into his own matching chair next to Blaine's. “No, I'll never get back up again. Here's fine. And I promise I'll fix up these chairs soon.”

“There's no rush, honey. We've got time,” Blaine said, before reaching into the box and pulling out a sheaf of pictures and mementos from Kristy's pregnancy. The first ultrasound scan, where they'd both turned a little pale when the technician informed them that they were expecting twins; a receipt from one of many midnight Taco Bell runs when Kristy was going through a month-long stage of craving burritos like no other; a picture of Kristy's bump showing the clear outline of a foot; her medical wristband from St Luke's when she'd gone into labor two weeks prematurely; photographs of the first time Kurt and Blaine held their son and daughter, swaddled in soft blankets of baby pink and sky blue. Blaine watched as Kurt searched through one of the caddy drawers for the right backing paper, muttering to himself about ribbon and pinking shears.

Within almost no time at all, Kurt had the pages loosely laid out, and angled The Book towards Blaine.

“Looks perfect to me,” he said, chin propped in his hand as he gazed at his husband.

“You haven't even looked at it,” Kurt chided him with a click of his tongue, before his expression softened and he cupped Blaine's cheek affectionately. “But thank you.”

“You're welcome, handsome,” Blaine replied, his smile easy and proud as he turned to look at the pages. “Hmm. How about we put the bracelet down the side, like this?”

“You're right,” Kurt said after examining the page for a moment. “Breaks it up less. We make a good team.”

“Always have.”


	18. The Weary Stork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** This chapter PG-13  
>  **Spoilers:** None.  
>  **Warnings:** None.  
>  **Disclaimer:** I paint the pictures; I just borrow the names.  
>  **Notes:** Eternal gratitude to my brilliant beta/cheerleader/all round enabler, Rachie. Head on over to my [Tumblr](http://borogroves.tumblr.com)—check out my [Snapshots Masterpost](http://borogroves.tumblr.com/snapshots) for lots of behind-the-scenes goodies. Enjoy!

**Chapter Eighteen - The Weary Stork**   
_Sunday 8 March, 2026_

Kurt tugged on the ends of his hair for the umpteenth time in a row, glaring at the traffic ahead of the town car as if he could will it to part down the middle and make way for him. Didn't they know what was happening? Didn't they see how important it was for him to get to the hospital as soon as physically possible? The car crawled forward another few millimeters and he let out a groan of frustration.

“Is there any way around this?” he asked fruitlessly, voice raised to carry over the Punjabi music half-blaring through the speakers. The one town car he'd managed to find at such short notice, and of course they would get stuck in traffic.

“Sorry, sir,” the driver replied in heavily-accented English with a sympathetic glance in the rear view, and Kurt dejectedly slumped back in his seat. Why, today of all days, did his phone have to die? Why couldn't it have lasted long enough for him to get Blaine's voicemail while he'd still been at JFK? Why did McQueen have to greet him at the door by spectacularly throwing up all over him? Why couldn't all of this just be happening a day—even a few hours—later?

Kurt worked his jaw for a moment as he glanced out through the windshield, and made his decision.

“Fuck it,” he muttered, bolting from the car without explanation to the perplexed driver and slamming the door behind him. He took off at a dead run, feet pounding on the asphalt as he wound his way through the snail's-pace traffic and onto the pedestrian path across the Brooklyn Bridge. The long sprint across was a blur of overhead cable wires and ignoring the indignant insults hurled after him whenever he pushed past anyone who happened to be in his way. Upon reaching the other side, he stopped dead to catch his breath and get his bearings. Breathing harshly, the thick air burning on every inhale, he glanced around with wild eyes.

“Okay, Financial District,” he muttered to himself between breaths, and ran through every last one of his contingency plans, rifling through the carefully organized file cabinet in the back of his mind until he found the right one. “C train. Fulton Street. Twenty-five minutes to Columbus Circle.”

He broke into a light jog, looking at his watch. Good; going by the tailbacks he'd been dimly aware of all the way along the bridge, there was every chance he'd end up at the hospital earlier than he would have done had he stayed in the little town car that couldn't. Reaching beneath his jacket, he yanked his phone from the zipped chest pocket of his navy shirt and hit '1' on the speed dial, thanking his stars that he'd plugged it in to charge before taking his shower, blissfully unaware of what was going on.

“Honey, where are you?” Blaine's voice was tight, like he was barely keeping large amounts of panic in check.

“Fulton Street, about to jump on the C,” Kurt told him breathlessly, coming to an abrupt halt at the top of the subway steps. “I'll be there in thirty minutes. How's she doing?”

“She bitched out three of the nurses already. One of them cried. Everything's happening really fast, and she's... asking for you,” Blaine said, and Kurt didn't miss the meaning behind 'asking'. Kristy was probably screaming down the entire birthing center.

“On my way. I love you,” he rushed out, swinging around the railing and starting down the dank steps, narrowly avoiding the heavy-set bulk of a man who momentarily reminded him of Karofsky.

“I love you, too. See you soon, Papa.”

As the call ended, Kurt froze mid-step. _Papa._

All at once, it finally and gloriously hit him that this was really happening. It had been nearly three years. _Three years_ of urologists, gynecologists, artificial insemination attempts and two rounds of IVF treatment, aching and heart-sore all the while, and now Kurt Hummel-Anderson was about to become a father. His entire life was about to change forever.

“Move it, asshole!”

The snotty woman's voice and accompanying, unnecessarily forceful shoulder-check shook him from his shell-shocked daze, and he practically flew down the remaining steps, barging past the same woman in a childish fit of spite. _Left, right, left, right, swipe, keep going, don't close don't close don't close—thank God. Sit. Breathe. Remember to breathe._

Kurt's fingers drummed against his thigh at Canal Street in Tribeca. He rolled his neck from side to side at 8th Avenue in the West Village. Sliding to a stop at 42nd Street in his beloved Garment District, he fiddled restlessly with the asymmetric zipper of his jacket. At 50th Street, he finally dropped his head into his hands at and vowed that he would never again attend Paris Fashion Week. As the train sped to a stop at Columbus Circle, he was already standing in front of the doors, tapping his feet as he waited for them to open.

In what felt like no time at all, Kurt was skidding to a stop at the nurse's station in the birthing center, the soles of his boots squealing along the linoleum. The nurse—a midwife, he thought, noting the uniform similar to the one Carole wore—regarded him with a look that was somewhere between amusement and concern.

“Can I help you, sir?” she asked. Kurt let his shoulders drop, took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. He would be no use as Kristy's birthing partner otherwise.

“I'm Kurt Hummel-Anderson, I'm here for Kristy Rennalls,” he told her, and the nurse nodded.

“If you'll follow me,” she said, beckoning for him to come down the hall.

“How's she doing?” Kurt asked, matching the nurse's brisk, all-business pace.

“You have a daughter,” the nurse replied over her shoulder. Momentarily, Kurt's heart sank. “But don't worry, you're still in time for your little boy.”

“It's one of each?” All three of them had agreed that so long as the twins were happy and healthy, they didn't care, and wouldn't ask.

“Oh, my—sir, I am so sorry—“

“Don't be,” Kurt brushed her off. “I don't care, I'm just—“

He cut himself short as the nurse showed him into the birthing room. The first thing he saw upon rounding the corner was Blaine, standing in front of the window and almost silhouetted by the pale sunlight filtering through the vertical blinds. In his arms was an impossibly tiny pink bundle, and Blaine was looking at their sleeping daughter with indescribable wonder, tears silently slipping down his face as he rocked her from side to side. Kristy watched them through half-sleeping eyes, an exhausted smile quirking at her lips whenever she seemed to find another fragment of energy.

“Hey,” Kurt murmured, taking a half step forward. “Sorry I'm late.”

“Come here,” Blaine whispered, and Kurt crossed to the other side of Kristy's bed, transfixed. “She arrived about twenty minutes ago. Look, Kurt. Look how _beautiful_ she is.”

As soon as Kurt saw her face, he fell head over heels in love. Silently, Blaine shifted her in his arms and gently passed her to Kurt, a supporting hand beneath her head until she was settled.

“Audrey,” Kurt whispered, blinking back the tears in his eyes because he couldn't bear the thought of missing a single second; he needed to memorize every last millimeter of her.

“Audrey Elizabeth,” Blaine added, and Kurt's tears began flowing freely. He bit his lip and nodded, repeating the name to his daughter. His _daughter._

“And she's... She's okay?” Kurt asked, still drinking in the sight of her until Kristy spoke.

“Cries like a banshee, good weight, ten fingers, ten toes,” she said wryly, her voice cracked and hoarse. “Now if the other one would just hurry up...”

Quickly doing the math in his head, Kurt's mind immediately went into overdrive. “What's wrong? It's not usually this long between twins, is it?” he asked the midwife frantically. Being twins, they were already two weeks premature, and his thoughts raced with the possibilities of all that could be wrong. The midwife simply smiled kindly.

“It's quite alright,” she reassured him. “They come when they're ready. His heartbeat's very strong and he's not in any distress. He's just testing your patience. Better get used to that, you know.”

Both Kurt and Blaine relaxed a little, finally dropping into the two seats to the side of Kristy's bed. Audrey stirred in her sleep, bringing her hand up to clamp her tiny digits around the finger Kurt was stroking up and down her cheek, and every single part of him stilled.

“Saying hello to her Papa,” Kristy said, eyelids drooping as she let her hands rest on her swollen belly and watched them both.

“Kristy, I—how can we ever—“

“Blaine, don't,” Kristy interrupted him, suddenly sitting up with her face contorted in pain. “Not now, because here we go again.”

“Okay, Kristy, this time around it's gonna happen a lot more quickly,” the midwife said, pressing a call button on the controls next to the bed before positing herself at the end. “So as soon as you can, I'm gonna need you to start pushing.”

“Kurt, don't you dare miss the second one as well,” Kristy hissed through gritted teeth.

As quickly and carefully as he could, Kurt passed Audrey back to Blaine with a final lingering look before switching seats and gripping Kristy's outstretched hand. Locking their eyes, he focused only on her hand wrapped around his, whispering words of encouragement over and over. He was rambling, on the precipice of letting his tongue depress and chanting gibberish at her because he didn't know what else to do—he may have been the one reading the books and attending Lamaze classes with her, but this was the most intense thing he had ever experienced, and there was nothing else apart from her eyes and her hand in his, the entire world shrinking until—

Kristy's hand went slack, she collapsed into the pillows and Kurt dazedly looked around. The room was utterly silent save for the bustle of the midwife and two nurses hastily cleaning off his son. The entire room seemed to tilt and sway as ten awful seconds passed, Kurt jumping to his feet with eyes jolting from the nurses to the baby and back again, and then a piercing wail filled the air. It was the most wonderful sound he had ever heard.

“Congratulations!” the midwife said, her smile bright as she took a sharp pair of scissors from one of the nurses and held them out to Kurt, indicating to where the cord had been clamped. “Would you like to do the honors this time?”

Kurt nodded, accepting the scissors. One swift, spongy snip later and his son was being wrapped up in a blue blanket and placed into Kurt's waiting arms. There it was again; that narrowing of vision and universe until he was focused only upon the being he held. As if only from a great distance, he could hear Blaine and Kristy's muffled discussion with the midwife about Apgar scores and the twins' birth weights being good despite their prematurity. Rocking the baby from side to side, he could feel himself falling head over heels once more, and soon the crying quietened into soft snuffles, then finally the even breathing of sleep.

“Oliver?” Blaine asked over his shoulder, and Kurt nodded with a sigh, turning to sit on the bed and squeeze Kristy's hand. She smiled wearily, eyes closed.

“Oliver William,” Kurt whispered reverently, offering by way of explanation, “he's so much like you and your dad. Look, he even has your nose.”

“Audrey looks like you, Kurt,” Kristy intoned, shifting and angling herself onto her side. “I mean, it _is_ possible.”

“That we have one each?” Kurt asked skeptically.

“It's rare, but it's been known to happen,” the midwife supplied. “We can perform paternity tests if you'd like.”

“No, no. That won't be necessary,” Kurt said hurriedly.

“We don't care, we're just... happy they're here and healthy,” Blaine added.

“All right,” the midwife replied with a nod, and motioned toward the door. “I'll be back in just a minute to check on him again.”

“Wait,” Blaine stage-whispered, and dug into his pocket with his free hand, producing his phone. “Would you mind taking a picture for us?”

“Right now?” Kurt asked, and Blaine shrugged as well as he was able.

“For The Book,” he said simply as the midwife rounded the end of the bed and took the phone.

“I guess we could find some time next weekend to do the new pages,” Kurt murmured, carefully repositioning himself and Oliver to face the midwife while Blaine moved to Kristy's other side so that she was in between them, ignoring her weak protests that she looked terrible. In his mind's eye, Kurt grasped for his schedule before giving himself over entirely to his two tiny, fragile children— _children_ —and getting lost once more. The soft _click_ barely even registered.

*

_Saturday 27 August, 2044_

“How funny it is, looking back at myself thinking we'd have time to do this with two newborns to take care of,” Kurt said, pressing the paper frame over the edges of the photograph.

“You didn't know,” Blaine replied easily as he sorted through the pile of snapshots for the next pages. Swiveling in his seat, Kurt caught glimpses here and there of Audrey's eyes lit up with wonder as a goat nuzzled against her hand, and Oliver's mischievous grin through the obscene amount of spaghetti sauce smeared around his mouth. All firsts.

“Oh, but I did,” Kurt said loftily, “I was just too stubborn to believe it. I thought it was going to be a walk in the park—some lost sleep, some schedule reworking, but nothing like what it was. We were going to be the fabulous gay Dads who had everything under control and never lost their cool, not even for a second. Everyone was going to envy and hate us for how together we were.”

“It wasn't _that_ bad,” Blaine reasoned, and Kurt immediately adopted a concerned expression, pressing his palm to Blaine's forehead.

“Are you feeling alright? Feverish? Because you're obviously not thinking straight.”


	19. Life During Fatherhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** This chapter PG-13  
>  **Spoilers:** None.  
>  **Warnings:** None.  
>  **Disclaimer:** I paint the pictures; I just borrow the names.  
>  **Notes:** Eternal gratitude to my brilliant beta/cheerleader/all round enabler, Rachie. Head on over to my [Tumblr](http://borogroves.tumblr.com)—check out my [Snapshots Masterpost](http://borogroves.tumblr.com/snapshots) for lots of behind-the-scenes goodies. Enjoy!

**Chapter Nineteen (A) - Life During Fatherhood**

**Life During Fatherhood: Special Delivery via United States Postal Stork (It's 4am, Okay?)**  
Posted by **Kurt** on Wednesday 10 March 2026 at 4:14AM EST

You may have noticed, dear readers, that the name of this blog has changed from “Life Before Fatherhood” to “Life During Fatherhood”. That, along with the fact that I am sitting in my study and writing this at approximately god-awful o'clock, may clue you in to the fact that Blaine and I are indeed now entering the “during” stage of fatherhood. For those of you who may just be joining us, I'll catch you up.

In June 2023, Blaine and I took a trip to Montauk. We'd both been working around the clock, and hadn't had any real time to spend with one another in endless months of the same cycle of work, home, eat, sleep, rinse and repeat. It was just one weekend, but it afforded us the chance to reconnect, rejuvenate ourselves, and have a conversation that I'd been putting off for a while. We came out the other side feeling happier, more in love than ever before, and focused on a future neither of us had really ever known was waiting but, suddenly, realized was right there in front of us.

We were lucky enough, that holiday season, to have most of our extended family and many of our friends gathered at our home. After dinner on Christmas Day, my brother told us all that he and his wife were expecting a second child, one of our oldest and dearest friends proposed to his girlfriend of almost four years, and Blaine and I announced that we were intending to start a family. I don't think I've ever seen my father look so proud, and—I say this with no hint of ego—I've seen him look proud a number of times over the years.

The day afterward, Blaine and I were sitting together on the porch swing and winding down from the stress of hosting our very first Christmas. Our friend, known around this blog as K, came out for some air and sat with us for a little while, wrapped up in one of our good blankets and all three of us just looked out over the snow covering the garden. After about ten minutes of complete silence, she suddenly blurted out that she wanted to be our surrogate. The look on our faces was priceless, I'm sure.

While I won't completely humiliate myself by regaling you all with the somewhat disastrous tale of how long it took me to get to the hospital when I got the call that K was in labor (note: if you're thinking about sprinting the length of the Brooklyn Bridge, I'd recommend being in good shape), I will summarize March 8th 2026 in five words: Audrey Elizabeth and Oliver William.

Yes, they've arrived. They're beautiful, and perfect, and I find myself standing in their room in the middle of the night just watching them sleep. I'm already exhausted, and my eyelids are drooping as I write this, but I'm far from the point of caring yet. Back in November 2024, Blaine wrote that we were fathers without a child. The nursery was decorated, we'd spent an obscene amount of money on literally everything we could think of—there was a somewhat exhaustive list—yet... There was no baby. And now that we have not only a child, but _children_ , it's difficult allowing myself to miss a moment.

Blaine has just padded in and put his arms around me, and he has his forehead resting against the back of my neck. He's telling me that even if I don't want to miss a thing when it comes to our babies, I'm missing my sleep. He's saying that my pillows are missing _me_ , and that I'm being unfathomably cruel by depriving them of the opportunity to create some truly epic bed-head.

 

As always, Mr Voice-Of-Reason is right, so I'll bid you all a very fond adieu for now. Until next time.

*

 **Life During Fatherhood: A Day of Sanity**  
Posted by **Blaine** on Saturday 29 August 2026 at 7:15PM EST

When they say that kids are exhausting, let me tell you: _they are not lying_. This morning, I woke up with the familiar, bone-deep weariness that's been hanging around my neck like a lead weight since March. I was half on my front, splayed out like a starfish across my side of the bed (along with a good percentage of Kurt's), with neither the drive nor the inclination to move any time soon. The sheets were soft, all warmed up by the sunlight filtering in through the open bedroom window, and just for a moment I let myself sink deeper into the pillows.

Then I realized. Sunlight?

It was with groggy eyes and lazy limbs that I groped around on the nightstand for my watch, and when my fingers closed around the strap, I dragged it onto the pillow next to my head, all the while blinking away remnants of sleep. When I saw what time it was, all I did for a full thirty seconds was stare. How in the hell could it possibly be nine in the morning? Surely, that couldn't be right. No, it must have stopped the night before—I've been meaning to replace the battery for a while, after all. But when I listened, the ticking was as steady as ever.

It took every reserve of strength I could find in order to throw off the covers and haul myself out of bed. Half sleepwalking, I let my feet assume autopilot and lead me to the bathroom, where I brushed my teeth with absolutely zero finesse and inwardly winced when I caught sight of the crow's feet around my eyes—I'm painting quite the attractive picture, I know.

Downstairs, I was greeted by the sound of the radio and I shuffled towards the sharp, rich scent of the La Providencia that we bring home from Gorilla (there is no more heavenly coffee, I assure you). Kurt was making airplane noises for our son, and I leaned against the fridge for a moment, just watching. The kids were both banging the tray-tables of their high chairs with their spoons—an action that, rather eerily, reminded me of one of my good friends when he used to preside over our show choir group (and probably still does, if I know him at all)—and there was oatmeal splattered everywhere, yet I don't think I've ever seen my husband so at ease: he just doesn't _do_ mess.

“Aud's decided that she doesn't like carrots anymore,” he informed me while feeding her another bite of her oatmeal and affectionately swiping at her cheek like he does on a regular basis. “And of course, our son agrees with her.”

So does her Dad, but instead of voicing my opinion, I opted to say “good morning” with a kiss and ask my husband how he manages to look so good so early. It wasn't until I had a cup of coffee raised halfway to my lips, musing absent-mindedly on something I heard about oatmeal being used as a face mask, that Kurt's reply to my question (“Well... I _have_ been up for two hours. The munchkins didn't wake up until eight, so I had time to at least make some attempt at presentability. The completely uninterrupted night's sleep helped, of course.”) actually struck a chord with me.

The remainder of our short morning conversation seemed to wash over me just like the coffee-scented steam curling wetly beneath my nose, with my husband telling me not to jinx it by making a big deal about it, that if this is what sanity feels like, he'd appreciate being able to hold onto it for as long as possible. Of course, when I _did_ make a big deal about it, exclaiming that I didn't even really know what day it was, Kurt calmly and sympathetically informed me that it was Saturday, and while I recognized that he only knew this because WABC told him so, I'm practiced enough by now at being a husband that I bit my tongue and said nothing to contradict his self-satisfaction.

The great thing about being married to Kurt is that he's also practiced enough by now at being a husband that he allowed me the thirty seconds it took for me to drain my coffee cup before dragging me and the twins upstairs to get them dressed for a day at the park. As he said, “I'm starting to feel human for the first time since March and I refuse to waste such a beautiful day. Come help me make the most of it.”

*

 **Life During Fatherhood: Balancing Acts**  
Posted by **Kurt** on Monday 19 October 2026 at 10:31PM EST

It occurs to me that balance is a very difficult thing to achieve. Walking the knife-edge fine line of equilibrium is not a straight, Roman road that stretches all the way ahead to the horizon: instead, it's a curve around the mountainside. Some points of the journey demand more of you than you feel physically able to give, and then there are the moments of ambling respite—the times where the path plateaus and you're able to catch your breath and rest your weary body, if only for a few hours. Up until today, both my husband and I seemed to be—and here I will shamelessly quote material from his debut album—walking an incline with stones in our shoes.

Our search for help began last month. Due to family commitments (and oh, how good it feels to use those words in reference to my own little slice-of-heaven-and-hell family), I was unable to attend Fall Fashion Week for the first time since taking the reins at Westwood. Blaine has been spending the better part of his time locked in his studio working on material for his next album, only emerging for food, visits to the bathroom, and sleep (and the two hours every evening where he downs tools to eat dinner with us, curl up beside me on the couch, and whisper musical words into my ear between trying to teach our still-speechless babies the lyrics of Disney songs). Because of all this, it finally came to the point where we grudgingly admitted that we could use some help.

Tonight, I was sitting on the couch after Blaine had disappeared back into his studio, the twins safely ensconced in their playpen as I trawled through a folder thick with applications that covered a wide spectrum from promising-yet-expensive to reasonably-priced-but-hell-no. McQueen was stretched out next to me and after finally admitting defeat for the day I was running my fingers through his fur, feeling out how thick it was getting for winter, and taking a moment to watch the twins and marvel over how quickly they're developing and progressing. Sometimes, I swear I can see them growing right in front of me. Just last week, for example, I was making dinner when Blaine bounded in and dragged me by the hand into the living room. Of course, when I realized he'd left our babies unsupervised, I opened my mouth to start berating him, but he simply pointed at them and made me watch. They were sitting slightly apart in the center of the couch—quite safe, I noted somewhat guiltily—and their faces were all lit up as they babbled unintelligibly at one another. They looked just like I'm sure Blaine and I do whenever we catch up with our friends from high school or college.

“They look _drunk,_ ” Blaine whispered to me, eyes flitting between them. “You didn't listen to that old wives' tale about the whiskey, right?”

I thought better of correcting him—the look on his face was worth him silently thinking the worst of me for a few minutes. But this was what I was thinking about as I was fussing over my cat, and when I just so happened to glance over at the playpen (which, by the way, is huge and takes up most of the living room floor—this little fact is relevant).

The twins were sitting in opposite corners, and Audrey was holding up Oliver's favorite toy—Claude, the lobster plushie that came in a recent package from his aunt and uncle. Oliver had a look of such intense focus and concentration on his face, eyebrows knitted and tongue almost sticking out—just like Blaine whenever he stops mid-strum to note something down—that I couldn't help but sit forward. As I watched, Oliver rolled himself forward onto his stomach and propped himself up, determinedly staring at the lobster like it was his own personal Everest. Audrey simply held it up, perfectly still, and I wondered if this was it.

Breaking one of the cardinal household rules—disturbing Blaine's creative process (and believe me, I know how that can be; there was a time when I was known as 'Kurtzilla')—I dialed '1' on the speed dial, ignored his attempt at a _Real Housewives_ reference, and told him to grab the video camera and get his cute butt downstairs. Oliver was on his front, kicking out his chubby little legs behind him as if he were in a pool and just clumsily learning how to swim. Audrey still held out Claude, and while I was fighting the urge to leap to my feet and cheer on my son, I had to wonder where she gets such patience—not from Blaine, and certainly not from me.

Blaine was at the bottom of the stairs and hitting record a split-second after Oliver pushed himself up and dragged his left knee along the bottom of the playpen. Audrey giggled— _giggled_ —and when Oliver reached forward with his right hand to balance himself, the look on his face took my breath away. Dawning triumph and perhaps even pride—exactly the same beaming smile of completion that Blaine wears whenever he finishes a song.

Blaine inched his way through the living room to stand by my side, waving his free hand for me to take. When Oliver had closed half the distance towards his sister, Audrey tipped forward like it was the simplest thing in the world—like she'd been doing it for months already—and crawled to meet him in the middle.

I whispered Blaine's name, and felt his fingers tighten between my own. Tonight, while I was driving myself crazy trying to find some balance, our babies found their own.

“I know,” he whispered back, lowering the camera as the twins both returned to babbling to one another and playing with their toys, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all. “I know.”

*

 **Life During Fatherhood: Told You So (Complete With Interpretative Dance)**  
Posted by **Blaine** on Wednesday 25 November 2026 at 4:59PM EST

According to me, our daughter said her first word last Monday. According to my husband, I'm sure, our daughter said her first word approximately ten minutes ago.

Since last week, I've been steadily growing firmer in the belief that my daughter is a selective mute. I have, on no fewer than fourteen separate occasions over the past week, called Kurt's office in a flurry of excitement, holding the phone up to Audrey's ear and encouraging her to repeat the word 'Papa'. It was barely more than a whisper the first time she said it last Monday, when she pointed at the picture of Kurt that served as the wallpaper on my phone, but ever since then, her voice has grown stronger and more sure with each and every repetition.

Except, of course, in the presence—or even the merest suggestion—of another person (and isn't that always the way?). I've been back in the studio, and as soon as I walk through the door each day at four p.m., I ask Lucia, our nanny, if Audrey has spoken again yet. The answer is always no. I've tried capturing her on video, and even taking her into my home studio with the recording equipment still running, but nothing. The only time she'll say it is when it's just the three of us—me, Audrey, and Oliver. It's disconcerting, really, how much my daughter seems to constantly outsmart me, and if I didn't know any better, I'd think that she was practicing it over and over, getting good enough at it so that she could say it to Kurt and be proud of herself.

Sometimes, it's so easy to forget that the twins are only just shy of eight months old.

This afternoon when I got back from the studio—forgive me for taking a moment here to shamelessly plug my next record, because I think you guys are going to love the new sounds we've been playing around with—Audrey was still wide awake when she should have been exhausted and down for a nap, but that's my daughter: ever the contradiction. Deciding to switch on some classic Katy Perry and dance around the living room with her was probably more for my benefit than it was hers, but as I waltzed her over to our photograph-littered mantelpiece, she stretched out her arms and grabbed at the air with her fingers, happily crying out, “Papa!”

I decided to make one last-ditch attempt at calling Kurt, knowing that I would probably admit defeat and learn patience if Audrey still wouldn't speak. As soon as I pulled my phone from my pocket, of course, Audrey stopped talking. All the same, and ever hopeful, I dialed one-handed and switched to speakerphone.

“Now baby, Papa really wants to hear you speak,” I told her as the phone rang in my hand. “Papa doesn't believe Daddy that you can talk, and you know that Daddy doesn't often get to be right. I know it's scary, but can you be really brave for Daddy and say hello?”

When Kurt answered the phone, all I got to hear was something involving a meeting he was about to go into before I almost dropped the phone.

“Papa!”

For a full five seconds, there was complete silence.

“Was that—is that you, baby girl?”

Audrey looked up at me with something akin to wonder, and clapped her hand over her mouth. “Go on,” I told her, and gently pried her hand away, holding the phone near her ear. “Say hi to Papa.”

“Papa,” she repeated, slightly quieter than the first time.

“Hey, Little Hep,” Kurt said, sounding a little breathless and a lot surprised. 'Hep' is the nickname we've given her while we're trying to teach her to say her own name—'Audrey' is possibly a little too ambitious for her first word, after all. “How's my favorite girl?”

Audrey just giggled and hid her face against my shoulder. “She's doing good, Papa,” I said, feeling more than a little vindicated. “So. Do you have anything to say?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Kurt sniffed, in that way of his.

“I will do the told-you-so dance, Kurt, I swear to God.”

“Fine. Fine, you were right. Happy?” Kurt grumbled, and at the sound of shuffling papers, I imagined him standing in the middle of his office, phone pressed between his ear and his shoulder as he shifted presentation folders full of the most preliminary of designs for fall/winter 2027 (he's been muttering about them since just after Fall Fashion Week).

“I love you,” I said, simply.

“I love you too, honey,” Kurt replied softly, a note of surprise coloring his tone. “See you when I get home. Keep our girl talking.”

And I will. Just long enough for Kurt to get home and hear her. Just long enough for me to be able to perform the told-you-so dance in all its glory.

*

 **Life During Fatherhood: On Martyrdom**  
Posted by **Kurt** on Sunday 14 February 2027 at 10:01PM EST

The first Valentine's Day that I spent with Blaine wasn't exactly what you would call successful, in terms of romance. It came around a few months into my then strictly platonic relationship with the man I'm still, after sixteen years together, thrilled to call my own. Blaine was completely, infuriatingly oblivious to my feelings for him—even after the outrageously flirty duet of _Baby, It's Cold Outside_ that we did the previous Christmas—and one day, he came into Warbler practice to request help in asking out his crush on Valentine's Day through the medium of song. Being the hopeful yet naïve sixteen-year-old that I was, I was only too happy to help—thinking, of course, that his crush was one Kurt Hummel.

Unfortunately for my shaky self-esteem, his crush was not one Kurt Hummel. It was in fact one of the sales assistants at the Gap, who shot him down shortly after the performance. I won't embarrass my husband by revealing his song of choice (not out of choice, you understand. We were all made to swear an oath that we'd never speak of it again), and needless to say, he was fairly surprised when I finally confessed my feelings to him at our old coffee haunt. We agreed to stay friends, and that was the story of the first Valentine's Day in our shared history.

Of course, in the interim, we've had our fair share of both V-Day and date disasters—there was one time where we woke up in Salem with no idea of how we got there, and that really is one that I'll never delve into too deeply—but we've also had some wonderful, love-affirming times together.

Tonight, unfortunately, was not one of those times—the more observant amongst you may have already guessed that from the date and time that this entry is being posted.

This year, it so happened that one of the few times we were both able to get home to see our parents in Ohio coincided with Valentine's. The twins are staying with their grandma, and tonight Blaine and I drove into Columbus for dinner and some much-needed alone time to reconnect. I've been busy with Fashion Week, and our nanny has been in California visiting with family, so my stoic and dutiful husband has spent the past five days running around after Audrey (who has, I'm happy to report, started walking—read: running) and sleeping very little after being up most nights taking care of our sick little boy. He's been absolutely exhausted, and the only thing that kept him awake during dinner was the fact that he checked his phone every five minutes (if you can even believe it, this is the first time both of us have ever been away from the twins at the same time). I made it halfway through the main course before I finally confiscated the damn thing and switched it off.

“I still have my phone on, honey,” I told him, doing my best to keep my tone placating. “The difference is that I don't need to constantly check it to know that the kids are safe and happy with your mother.”

“But what if Audrey runs outside and gets lost? Or what if—“

“Honey, you're exhausted,” I interrupted calmly, reaching for Blaine's hand across the table. “You're still stressed out from the drive yesterday, and don't think I haven't noticed how badly you've been sleeping lately. It's okay to admit that you could use a break.”

“I'm fine,” Blaine muttered, poking at his barely-touched halibut.

“Uh huh,” I said skeptically. “Well, all of that aside, today is still Valentine's Day, you still look incredibly dapper, and I'm still going to make love to you tonight. So anytime you're ready to stop being such a martyr to our children, just let me know.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Blaine's mouth, and he sheepishly met my eyes for a moment before shaking his head, running his thumb over my knuckles and biting at his lip. “You know, I'm not really that hungry anymore.”

When we reached our room at the cute little boutique hotel we chose, we were greeted by the standard scattering of rose petals, along with aromatherapy candles gathered in threes on each bedside table, and a porter had accompanied us to our room with a platter of fresh strawberries and a complimentary bottle of champagne—apparently the hotel are, as the manager gushed, “just so thrilled to welcome Kurt and Blaine Hummel-Anderson back to Ohio”.

Ignoring all of it, I simply started unbuttoning Blaine's pinstriped Oxford and pushed him to lie on his stomach on top of the covers, paying no heed to his admittedly weak protests. After twenty minutes of attention being paid to the overworked muscles in his neck, shoulders, and back, he was more relaxed than I'd felt him for months.

“So what is it that you love about Columbus so much?” I asked in response to his quiet declaration of renewed affection for the city. When there was no answer, I leaned forward and quietly asked the question again. Still no response.

“Blaine, honey? You're asleep, aren't you?”

I let out a long-suffering sigh (because seriously, who falls asleep at 8:30pm on Valentine's Day? My goober of a husband, that's who) and turned to sit on the edge of the bed, twisting one arm behind myself to thread my fingers through his. Suddenly feeling very old—and very married—I reached for my phone with the other hand, all the while darkly muttering something like, “bet these four walls don't often see people doing much sleeping on Valentine's.”

It was just as I was swiping across the screen to check the time that it buzzed to life in my hand with a new email. It had been sent to both of us by my mother-in-law, wishing us a happy Valentine's Day, with a short video attached.

Upon opening it, I was greeted by a crystal clear clip of Oliver pulling himself to a standing position at one end of the couch, pointing and babbling to Audrey where she stood at the other end. He turned to face the camera with his tiny fist pressed to his little grin, looking like he had some sort of juicy and delicious secret to share. As I watched, I disentangled my fingers from those of my sleeping, ever-oblivious husband and pressed my palm to my heart when Oliver took two uncertain, clumsy steps toward Audrey, arms by his sides rather than holding onto the couch for support.

The clip ended with Oliver all but barreling into his sister and knocking them both into a pile of pillows and cushions that had been arranged in the middle of the floor, and I smiled at a faint memory impression of my dad arranging a similar thing for me when I was just knee-high to a grasshopper.

After replying with a thank-you for the video, I laid down on the bed next to Blaine, and only thought better of waking him at the very last moment, when my fingers were a half-inch away from tangling between his messy curls.

“No,” I whispered, mostly to myself. “You can wait until the morning to see it. That's what you get for falling asleep at eight-thirty on Valentine's Day.”

That's the thing about martyrdom. Drop the effort, even for a moment, and it'll bite you in the ass. Or maybe that's just me doing the biting. (Hey, it's Valentine's Day and only half of us is awake—perhaps you'll forgive the terrible attempt at humor.)

*

 **Life During Fatherhood: The Unfortunate Pumpkin**  
Posted by **Blaine** on Friday 24 November 2028 at 10:21AM EST

“Take the kids pumpkin-picking,” he said. “It'll be fun,” he said. In about three years' time—even six months from now—I'm sure it will be. But two days ago? Not so much.

Of course, my naïve inner five-year-old thought it was a fantastic idea, so I took the car and drove the three of us out to Stakey's in Aquebogue. It's beautiful—26 acres where you're free to roam and pick pumpkins straight off the vine, complete with a Bouncy House, pony rides, face-painting, and a three-acre corn maze.

I'll preface this part of my woeful tale by making it clear that sometimes, I'm prone to being an idiot of the highest order. As long as we're clear on that, I'll continue.

It was in said corn maze where I found myself wearily jogging along behind the twins, who were chasing each other as though the dreaded Bogeyman himself were on their heels. While I was yelling after them to slow down—for two-and-a-half year olds, they're both surprisingly fast—I received a sympathetic look and some words of encouragement from a harried and exhausted-looking mother as she and her husband wrangled their five rowdy kids around the corner. In lieu of any vocal response, I could only offer a somewhat sheepish smile in return—who was I to compare notes with her when I have less than half the number of children she does?—before I took off after them again.

When I reached the fork at the end of the path, I slowed down to a creeping tip-toe, repeating the pattern of the last five corners. I found the twins as ever, crouched low to the ground, shushing each other and both with hands covering their painted faces. That's one of many questions I've been asking myself recently: why do my kids never get tired of Hide & Go Seek?

The thing is, no matter how sick you get of Hide & Go Seek, you have to play along for their sake. So there I stood, one hand on my hip and the other scratching my head, wondering aloud where little Hep and Twist could have gotten to. They giggled, shushed each other again, and finally jumped up and gave themselves away when I started making noises about going home to look for them there.

“You guys ready to pick some pumpkins for Thanksgiving tomorrow?” I asked as I swept them both up in matching fireman's holds.

“Pie!” they shouted in unison, and of course that was what they were most excited about—Papa's famous pumpkin pie (I'd only been raving about it since, oh... Labor Day). That in turn, naturally, led me into considering what I'm thankful for this year. Where to begin? A great marriage, a solid career, two beautiful children, and I get to spend my days wrapped up in love, music, and (for the most part) the stark concrete beauty of New York City. I was just getting to the point of feeling completely content with life, counting up my blessings, when Audrey cried out two words. Two words that no parent ever wants to hear when half-lost in a three-acre corn maze.

“Daddy, potty!”

The only way I can describe what happened next is that auto-parent kicked in, and I dropped the twins to sit on either hip as I broke into a jog, pleading with my daughter to hold on as long as she could while simultaneously cursing myself for leaving the diaper bag in the car. She's almost fully potty-trained, you see, and Oliver's only just started so he's still in diapers. I guess I just figured that we'd be okay for a couple hours. This is one of the many reasons that I thank God every day for Kurt—he has contingency plans for everything. He wouldn't have left the damn bag in the car. Especially when (as I realized, with a sinking feeling in my gut when we finally emerged from the maze) the restrooms were clear across the other side of the pumpkin field. My darling daughter evidently reached the same conclusion when I set her and her brother down at the edge of the field.

One second. I took my eyes off them for one second, guys—but as with all small children, that's all it takes. When I turned back around, it was to witness Audrey relieving herself on the nearest pumpkin, Oliver standing close by and glaring at a family who were just leaving the maze and shooting me disapproving looks. I could almost hear their thoughts.

_What kind of parent is he, letting his toddler pee on a pumpkin? Doesn't he realize how unsanitary that is? Where is his diaper bag? Where is his sense of social decency? Should we call Child Protective Services?_

Shame-faced and with my dignity in tatters, taking comfort only in the look of intense relief on Audrey's face, I cleaned her up as best I could and got us the hell out of there as quickly as possible. I can safely say that it was far from my finest hour—in fact, it was one of the most mortifying experiences of my life (I know, now, why our parents choose to embarrass us so thoroughly during our teenage years)—and oh, how Kurt laughed at my misadventures when I returned home with pumpkins from Trader Joe's.

Belated Thanksgiving wishes from the Hummel-Anderson clan.

*

 **Life During Fatherhood: Hold That Thought**  
Posted by **Kurt** on Saturday 15 September 2029 at 8:02PM EST

Our kids have now reached the point in their lives where they're ready to leave home for a few hours each day and spend that time in the care of people with qualifications, experience in how children behave, and knowledge of how the members of each new generation interact. Yes, Audrey and Oliver are now attending preschool. They're learning songs, and bringing home finger paintings with which to adorn the refrigerator, and—most importantly—making new friends. A new experience for them, since the neighborhood kids they've grown up playing with were all at least two or three by the time we brought them home.

Today, there was a play date. A group of the moms from the school get their kids together most Saturday afternoons at the park and share all the latest gossip—who's behaving suspiciously enough that they may be having an affair, who's lost weight and with which of the latest fad diets, who's getting a raise at work and whether it's deserved or not—while the kids run around and blow off steam. Earlier this week as I dropped the kids off on my way to work, trying not to ache too much as Oliver made a beeline for his new friends and Audrey only permitted me to steal a quick kiss rather than the usual hug-and-kiss combo, one of the moms seemed to notice my melancholy and invited me to join her group at the weekend. With Blaine in Toronto to host the MMVAs (so proud of you, honey!), I was at something of a loose end anyway, and decided that it might be a good idea to get to know the women that, if my kids have anything to do with it, I'll be spending the next fifteen years exchanging playground pleasantries with and attempting to out-do at every bake sale.

With the twins dressed and ready to go, I packed up a lunchbox full of the lemon squares that, since his stint on the Disney cruise, I seem to have been in the habit of baking whenever Blaine is out of town, and together we walked to the park. It was a beautiful fall day here in Brooklyn, with the leaves displaying their usual autumn rainbow, and as soon as we got to the park the twins were immediately running off to join their friends.

I, on the other hand, was completely out of my element in this new and different group of people. These brand new social situations are still something I'm not entirely comfortable with, even at twenty-five years old (shh... let me have my little delusions). These situations are where I always fervently wish I was in possession of my husband's charm and natural ease with people—he slips easily from skin to skin, whereas I stubbornly cling to the one in which I fought so hard just to feel comfortable.

The lemon squares, however, did help. Once we got started swapping recipes, and I shared a few of the low-fat ones I've posted here over the years, it was like I'd always been part of the group.

Or it might have been, if only I'd had the chance to finish a conversation. Honestly, I lost track of the amount of times I used and/or heard the words, “hold that thought”, “just a minute”, and “be right back”. Though there were a group of six or seven of us, there were never more than three of us seated at any one time, myself and the rest of the moms always running off to make sure one of the kids didn't fall off the jungle gym and break their neck, or walk into a pole and break their neck, or collide with another child and break their neck.

That wasn't even the half of it, though—the boys were all running around like something possessed, vocal gunfire filling the air all through the park as the girls gravitated around the sandbox and hosted imaginary tea parties for the dolls and stuffed animals that seemed to never leave their sides. Every other second, we were tearing our attention away from the conversations upon which we'd only been half-focused to begin with to provide juice, or snacks, or kisses to a bruised elbow or scraped knee. Honestly, it got to the stage where we could barely remember what the original conversation was about, let alone the point we were trying to—

Uh-oh. Hold that thought.

*

 **Life During Fatherhood: Life (and Death) Lessons**  
Posted by **Blaine** on Saturday 12 April 2031 at 9:43PM EST

When the big things happen, the life-altering moments and events that shift your entire world and turn it upside down, you're almost never prepared for them. I'm not talking about the ones that you plan, like going for the job you've been coveting for years, or moving house, or starting a family. Those are changes where the journey can be long, where you have the time to consider, and adjust, and watch the dust settle. I'm talking about the things that hit you in an unexpected and painful bolt from the blue, the things that you have no way of bracing yourself for until it's already too late.

This week, we've had to say goodbye to our perpetually unimpressed, curmudgeonly prince of a cat, McQueen. And this week, Kurt and I have undertaken the unenviable task of trying to help our two confused five-year-olds wrap their young minds around the concept of loss.

McQueen first became a part of our lives when I was working on one of the Disney cruise ships after college graduation. It was the longest period of time that Kurt and I had spent apart since our year-long separation during his first year at NYU, and while we went into it knowing what to expect, it was nonetheless difficult. In my first letter home, I suggested that Kurt get a cat for company (I may also have suggested Chairman Miaow as the best name for our new addition, and of course Kurt came up with something much more fitting).

When I returned home, it was to a far less forgiving carbon copy of Kurt, in feline form. He regarded me with cold, green eyes, watching my every move and judging me at every turn. Eventually, we reached an understanding: he ruled the roost, and I was the dorky one who cleaned out his litter box. Because of this, he tolerated my picking him up and running new material by him. We even developed a code. If he yawned, it was no good; if he blinked, it was passable but needed work; if he turned in my arms and pushed his head into the crook of my elbow—and this happened very rarely—then I was onto a winner. Our understanding took root, and blossomed as far as it was able over the years (in fact, I'd go so far as to say that he harbored a certain reluctant fondness for me after the twins, at two years old, discovered his tail).

We were used to being in one another's quarters, and shared some moments that touched my heart, as evidenced in past posts here (tagged “mcqueen's catwalk” if you're so inclined to read). Ultimately, we got along. And even after being with us for fourteen years, it didn't occur to me that he would one day leave us to go search out that mouse farm in the sky that all good cats are promised. But on Sunday morning, Kurt and I woke up to cold feet and an empty space at the end of the bed. We found McQueen on top of the refrigerator—his old go-to sleeping spot—curled up with his tail across his nose. He could have been sleeping.

It was, in a word, awful. Both of us have been lucky over the years to have had less than our fair share of grief, but that in itself seems, at this point, something of a double-edged sword. We were unprepared for this. Watching Kurt standing on a chair to pick up McQueen from his perch and cradle him like he used to—and seriously, there was nothing that this cat wouldn't let my husband do—was utterly heartbreaking, and all I could do was take him into the living room and hold him while he grieved.

When the kids came downstairs, bleary-eyed and in search of breakfast (thank God it was a weekend—when I was about eight, there was a day where I had to go to school knowing that our dog, Skate, probably wouldn't be waiting for me at the door when I got home), I took them into the kitchen and quietly made my approximation of French toast while Kurt composed himself enough to call the vet. And the twins, in all of their impossible, five-year-old wisdom, sensed that something was amiss. Of course they did. Even at their tender age, they're still two of the most empathic people I know. So I explained to them, as clearly and carefully as I could, that McQueen was gone. That when people and animals have lived as long as they're supposed to, and as long as they've been good, they get to go to Heaven. Which brought up the inevitable questions.

“What's Heaven like?” and, “Is Heaven where Grandpa Will is now?” and, “Do they have the right kitty treats there?” and of course, “If you have to be good to get in, does that mean you get coal if you're bad?”

Under different circumstances, that last one would have kept me chuckling all day, but home was a somber, quiet space that day. It has been all week. All of us have been watching corners, looking out into the yard, jumping whenever we've seen something from the corner of our eyes, only to be disappointed and a little heartbroken all over again.

On Thursday, Kurt brought home a small wooden box of ashes, and today we drove out to the Hamptons house to bury it beneath the cherry tree in the garden. Each of us held the box—to which Kurt (in true Kurt style) had made a few stylized additions—and said a few words.

“I'll miss your cuddles, they were the best,” said Oliver, which Audrey followed with, “you were my favoritest kitty ever.”

“Thanks for listening, buddy,” I told him, before whispering conspiratorially, “you were right about that last riff, by the way. Disaster. I'll do better, I promise.”

When Kurt took the box from me and set it in the ground, fingertips touching the tag from McQueen's collar that he placed on top, he had no words, only the soft mewling sound that he always made to tell McQueen, “I love you.” Just like with our high school mascot, Pavarotti, the two of them had their own secret language. Perhaps when this sadness has lifted a little, I'll tell you about the time I caught them having a full-blown conversation in the den. For now, though, I'm going to join my husband on the porch swing with a glass of Chateauneuf-du-Pape and see if I can find McQueen somewhere amongst the stars.

*

 **Life During Fatherhood: The Sound Of Silence**  
Posted by **Kurt** on Monday 25 August 2031 at 7:52PM EST

Change has always been something that's difficult for me to keep up with. Ever the man for having plans A and B, followed by anywhere up to three contingency plans carefully filed away, when something hits me from nowhere, it's not a rare reaction for me to retreat from the very thing that has blindsided me in order to deal with it.

They don't tell you about the small, everyday changes—I suppose because something are good sense, some are instinctive and some are a little bit of both. I've been guilty of this myself, of course (I'll never forget the puzzled expression on Blaine's face when he pulled a still-stained sleeper suit of Oliver's from the washing machine—I hadn't thought to tell him that our usual quick wash setting just wouldn't cut it), but most of the time I feel like we're stumbling through our days wearing blinkers. You could read all the parenting books ever written and still feel just as unprepared for the day ahead when you wake up in the morning. To be a parent is to be in a state of constant, unrelenting, adaptive evolution, and when your world suddenly grows quiet, sometimes it can feel like you've run headlong into a brick wall. You're left dazed, sore, and grappling to understand what happened and what to do next.

Today was that day for Blaine and I. For all that they tell you about what changes, they don't really tell you about what changes back.

This morning, for the first time in my life, I found myself packing more than just snacks for the kids to take to preschool with them. I made honest-to-God peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, because today was their first day of kindergarten. And it feels like only yesterday that I was dashing across the Brooklyn Bridge in a desperate attempt to be there for their birth. It really is true what they say: the days are long, but the years are short.

And I was fine. Really, I was. Blaine and I both canceled our days so that we could take the kids to school and be there to welcome them home again. We gave them their breakfast, helped them pick their first day outfits, made sure they had everything, and walked them to school. They've been doing it ever since starting preschool, so when they ran up the steps and into the building, of course it shouldn't have been any different than a regular day. But all at once it hit me—there would be no more mid-afternoon calls home from my studio, because they wouldn't be there. I missed them already, and I'm not ashamed to say that it took all I had to keep from grabbing them up and taking them home with us—anything to hold onto them for just one more day.

Once we'd met with their teacher and the kids had effectively shooed all parents from the building, Blaine and I decided to head to Gorilla for a coffee. Which is when the silence began. We held hands on top of the table and played footsie underneath, feeling newly teen-aged, and except for the occasional word here or laugh there, we were quiet. Settled. Peaceful.

And it was weird as hell. It wasn't that we had nothing to say to one another—it was that, for the first time in five and a half years, we had the simple gift of silence. Nothing to do, nowhere we needed to be (until 3pm, at least), and it was, in a word, weird. By the way Blaine was fidgeting, I could tell that he felt the same.

We went home soon after, spent some quality time together, and around noon I found myself taking a bath while Blaine read a real newspaper in the bedroom. All the while, we kept our words to a minimum in an unspoken agreement that during these few precious hours, we would rediscover the sound of silence. By the time I got out of the bath, though, I felt more restless than I had since the month before the twins were born. I was utterly and completely bored. Blaine had, by that point, moved from reading the newspaper to reorganizing his extensive collection of bow ties. We took one look at each other and burst out laughing.

By 2:30, we were already at the school, having managed to distract ourselves for as long as we possibly could. When the twins emerged, all bright smiles with hands full of paintings they'd made and permission slips for a field trip to the Natural History Museum, both talking nineteen words to the dozen about how much they loved "grown-up school", something inside me let out a sigh of relief.

As we started the walk home, Audrey taking Blaine's hand and Oliver taking mine, my husband paused briefly to look back at me and smile knowingly. It was a smile that said, “The mild tinnitus is worth it, right?”

And do you know something? It is. It really is.

*

 **Life During Fatherhood: Kidspeak**  
Posted by **Blaine** on Friday 24 December 2032 at 10:13PM EST

Some of you wonderful readers have asked for an entry dedicated to what you all seem to be calling "kidspeak". In the spirit of the 12 Days of Christmas, I'll present you with 12 of my favorites from over the years, in no particular order (you guys are lucky that I constantly carry around a notepad with me, because my memory seems to be getting worse with every passing day).

 **1.** Around the time that the twins were three, Kurt and I were trying to wrangle Oliver into his clothes on a day when he really, really did not want to be wearing any. After about five minutes of chasing him around his room, Kurt stood up, hands on hips, and said, "Oliver, behave!" Oliver's response? "I'm being haive!"

 **2.** Ever since learning to read, Audrey has had an insatiable hunger for the written word. She's in the process of working her way through the entire contents of the school library, and still finds the time to supplement her addiction with lists of ingredients on shampoo bottles, recipes and serving suggestions on food packets, and the other day, she even brought home the instruction manual for her best friend's new cell phone (why does a six-year-old need a cell phone?). Last night, I found her at the dinner table with an entire box of Animal Crackers spread out in front of her. When I asked her what she was doing, she calmly informed me, "The box says you can't eat them if the seal is broken. I'm looking for the seal."

 **3.** Two years ago, my brother Cooper and his long-term girlfriend Kristy got married. As with everything they do together, it was completely spur of the moment (how they managed to get a church at such short notice is still a mystery to me) and as such, they didn't have time for a rehearsal. The day of their wedding, I was standing up for Cooper and when Oliver appeared at the end of the aisle, I'd never been prouder. As he began making his way down the aisle, he would take two steps, stop, and turn to the guests (alternating between Kristy's side and Cooper's), put his hands up like claws, and roar. Step, step, ROAR, step step, ROAR, all the way down the aisle. The guests were near tears from laughing so hard by the time he reached the pulpit. Oliver, however, was getting more and more distressed from all the laughing and was almost crying by the time he reached us. When I asked him what he was doing, he sniffed and said, "I was being the Ring Bear."

 **4.** Never the type of parents to actively stifle our children or try to force our own beliefs on them, what could Kurt and I do when Audrey came home one day before the summer asking if she could go to Sunday School with one of her friends? Having never been myself, I was curious, and I spoke with the teacher, who was kind enough to let me sit in. According to the teacher, the previous week the kids were asked to look at the Ten Commandments and come back ready to talk about them. It seems that, unbeknownst to myself and Kurt, Audrey has been discussing them all week with the same friend who asked her to come along. Soon enough, the discussion progressed to the commandment that speaks about honoring one's parents, and one of the kids piped up, "What about brothers and sisters? Is there a commandment for them?" Without missing a beat, Audrey replied, "Thou shalt not kill."

 **5.** Ever since we taught the twins how to use the phone in case they ever need to dial 911 (heaven forbid), Oliver has developed a bit of an obsession with answering it, no matter where he is in the house. One evening a few months ago, I got held up at the studio and when I called home, Oliver answered, panting heavily. "Hey, Twist. You sound out of breath," I told him. He took a deep breath in, and replied, "No, I have more."

 **6.** As a result of Audrey's aforementioned love of books, it can sometimes be difficult to get her to go to sleep, because she's become quite adept at bedtime-stalling tactics. One particular favorite of mine, heard as I passed by her open bedroom door after tucking in Oliver: “Papa, I dropped your kiss on the floor; I need a new one.”

 **7.** In between Thanksgiving and Christmas last year, Kurt and I were having a thinly-veiled disagreement about whether we should go back to Ohio for the holidays or invite our families to stay with us. While I can now look back and realize that the stance Kurt took was the right one, at the time I was probably spoiling for a fight and just didn't want to back down. Kurt was sitting on the floor tugging a brush through Oliver's curls, when Oliver piped up, "You know, Daddy, you should just do what Papa says. He's always right anyway." Kurt's smug smile didn't last long, however, when Oliver continued, "But if he's mad at you, don't let him brush your hair."

 **8.** "Daddy, can Santa hear when I toot?” I think this one pretty much speaks for itself.

 **9.** When Audrey was about three, she had a cold and was using a humidifier at night. When I was rinsing it out in the sink, Oliver came by and asked me what it was. I didn't think he would be able to fully grasp how and why it worked, so I just told him that it was for his sister's runny nose. After a long pause, I thought he had just accepted my answer, but then he asked me, "How are you going to fit that in her nose?"

 **10.** At four years old, Audrey decided she wanted to mainly be left to dress herself. There were, of course, some obvious stumbling blocks. Namely, one morning she came downstairs already dressed for preschool, before she had eaten her breakfast. Kurt took one look at her—that's all it took; in his industry you have to have the Manhattan Once-Over down pat—and said, "Sweetheart, you have your shoes on the wrong feet." To which Audrey replied, "But I don't have any other feet!"

 **11.** I'm sure that all of you remember the violent thunderstorms we had in NY this summer. One evening, Kurt was tucking Oliver into bed and I found myself leaning in the doorway, having just left a sleeping Audrey. Kurt was just about to turn off the light when in a small and tremulous voice, Oliver said, "Papa, will you sleep in here tonight?" When Kurt gently said no, that he had to sleep in Daddy's room, Oliver was silent for a count of three before saying, "The big sissy."

 **12.** And finally, a Christmas-themed one to round this out. At breakfast a couple weeks ago, I was asking Audrey what she was hoping Santa would bring. When she answered that she wanted the recycling truck, I told her that maybe she should send a letter to Santa. After a moment's serious consideration, she told me that she'd decided she wanted to send him the letter 'd'.

Merry Christmas and a very Happy New Year from the Hummel-Andersons!

*

 **Life During Fatherhood: The Mom Talk**  
Posted by **Kurt** on Sunday 27 May 2033 at 9:01PM EST

Blaine and I count ourselves very lucky indeed that Audrey and Oliver attend such a progressive and inclusive school, with a zero-tolerance bullying policy. Our children have, thankfully, thus far enjoyed a relatively peaceful time at school, concerned more with having the latest and most stylish rucksacks and pencil cases than who their parents are. What we've realized this week, however, is that it only takes one throw-away remark to move kids into asking the big questions.

Questions such as, “Papa, why don't we have a mommy?”

We've always known that this would come up sooner or later, of course. In fact, ever since a month or so ago when I noticed the twins gazing somewhat thoughtfully around the playground at their friends' sets of parents, I've thought often of my high school guidance counselor, who seemed to have a pamphlet for everything (most of which were full of insightful and easy-to-read advice penned by her own fair hand). I understand that she's still enjoying her well-deserved tenure back home, but this is one of those times that I dearly wish she were here for me to lean on.

Naturally, my husband has come up with various creative ways of broaching such a sensitive subject with the kids. It began with the idea of penning a song (which was something I was all for, having spent the better part of my adolescence expressing my innermost thoughts and feelings almost exclusively through music). However, the very next day he came home late, and crawled into bed lamenting the rarity of words that rhyme with 'surrogate' and instead extolling the virtues of hand puppets.

“Think about it, Kurt! They're fun, and engaging, and creative! Plus, you know your way around a sewing machine and you'd get to play with Fun Felt! Seriously, it's a win-win situation.”

Straight afterward, I learned that my husband is not, as I had previously thought, immune to the patented Hummel Eyebrow Arch.

A week later, I found him in his studio. It was dark, save for the light of a single torch. Yes, readers. You've guessed correctly. Puppets of a different kind. And yes, you'd also be correct in thinking that my husband is one of the dorkiest goobers in existence.

After working his way through a veritable myriad of other options—including a play (vetoed), writing a book (also vetoed), and, most bizarrely of all, a jigsaw puzzle (definitely vetoed)—he finally collapsed onto the couch next to me one evening and said, after a heavy sigh, “Maybe we should just sit them down and talk to them about it.”

Biting my tongue against the urge to blurt out, “That's what I've been saying all along,” I simply patted his knee and smiled.

What we didn't anticipate, however, was Oliver's sullen mood all the way through dinner the very next day. He picked at his food, fidgeted and slumped in his seat, and wouldn't even respond when Audrey tried to start a conversation with him in Twinglish. Never the type to force my kids to eat if they don't want to—despite the fact that he must have been hungry, given how much he takes after Blaine and inhales his food while Audrey and I sit there and side-eye them both—I grudgingly let it go and started clearing up. It was as I was rinsing off the last plate to load into the dishwasher that he tugged on my sleeve and asked, “Papa, why don't we have a mommy?”

I'll admit it: when I turned around and saw the terrified look on his face (like he thought that, by asking, he was breaking some rule he didn't even know about), I froze. Not to mention that there was probably some highly unattractive gaping. But Blaine, my wonderful white knight, came to my rescue and ushered us all into the family room. It was there that my husband and I stumbled our way through explaining that all families are different. Some kids have a mom and a dad, some have two moms or two dads, some have their aunts, uncles, or grandparents. “It just so happens that you two were meant to have a daddy and a papa,” I told them. The underlying conversation that I was silently holding with Blaine throughout had us both coming to the same conclusion—at seven years old, the twins were simply too young to grasp the intricacies of surrogacy (intricacies which I didn't even fully understand until my late teens, after a particularly enlightening and brutally conversation with the effervescent Ms. Berry), and we both felt woefully under-prepared to respond to the one question we dreaded ever hearing: “Didn't she want us?”

We'll tell them in time, of course. I'm sure it will be plenty difficult for all of us, and one key relationship in their lives will change—only for the better, I hope—but we will always be around for them to call family. To look at, to hold hands with, and know that they are wanted and loved without condition. We knew this was never going to be easy, but then, hardly anything worth doing ever is.

One of the few exceptions to that rule? Sitting in a circle on the living room floor next to your loving husband and two beautiful children, gathered around a Cherry Crumb cheesecake from Junior's, each armed with a fork. That's as worth doing as breathing, and about as easy.

*

 **Life During Fatherhood: Before Our Time**  
Posted by **Blaine** on Friday 13 June 2036 at 11:01PM EST

Do you know what I slowly came to realize over the course of the past couple weeks, readers? Our kids are growing up. Not only that: with increasing age comes increasing self-awareness, and increasing need to assert a sense of independence—particularly from us 'embarrassing parents'. That's right, readers. Kurt and I are now officially an embarrassment to our children.

“But they're only ten!” I hear you say. “Shouldn't this be a few years away, when they hit their teens and their crazy hormones start making them want to listen to heavy metal and slam the doors to their messy bedrooms?”

Yup. I thought the same. Until the cake walk. For those of you who don't know what that is, in short, it's like musical chairs but with cakes. People taking part walk around a set of marked squares, and stay where they are when the music stops. If you land on a specially marked square, you get a cake, and this goes on (sometimes for hours) until all the cakes have been won. All of the parents are expected to contribute a cake, and every year, Kurt has managed to outdo himself (and mostly everyone else while he's at it). Last semester, it was a seven-layer white chocolate and raspberry chiffon cake. Yes, I'm serious.

It was also last semester that he decided he'd had quite enough, although not in the way you might think. I'd had to miss the walk due to work commitments, and I came home to find Kurt with folders upon folders spread across the island in the kitchen, sketchbook in front of him and his face set in concentration. He was drawing rapidly, sweeping his pencil across the page in long strokes while muttering quietly to himself.

“Working on the new line, honey?” I asked him, but stopped dead when I saw what all of the folders were open at. Pictures of cakes. “Oh, no.”

Then he looked up at me, all wide eyes and feigned innocence behind his glasses—and he still manages to pull that off, even at our age—and said, “What?”

The thing about Kurt is that he's very good at getting what he wants. Somehow, and I have no clue how he does it, he manages to come up with an idea and make you think it was yours. Perhaps he's using inception, I don't know. What I do know is that by the end of the evening, I found out that he'd 'been asked' by the PTA members to put together the Summer Festival's cake walk—and Kurt couldn't have been more thrilled. His plans were elaborate, to say the least, and I've been dropping not-so-subtle hints ever since that he might want to tone it down a little.

“Honey, are you sure you want them all to be on fluted pedestals? I'm just thinking that the combination of _all_ pastel colors and having everything at different eye levels might make it look a little like a French patisserie. Oh, that's what you were going for? Okay. Well, how about something different in terms of music? I know, I know—everyone loves _Oklahoma!_ but really, Kurt... If I'm being totally honest, this is going to be the gayest cake walk ever.”

But of course, my visionary husband would not be dissuaded, and it was indeed the gayest cake walk ever. The second I walked in with the kids, the look on their faces was a picture—a mixture of absolute horror, and beet-red chagrin. And the fact that they’re only ten years old should give you some indication of exactly how far Kurt went with it. Oliver immediately wrenched away from me to go play with his group of friends, and Audrey soon followed suit. This posed a problem for two reasons: one, I was left on my own, and two, I was left on my own. I was at the mercy of my husband, whom I had spotted berating some poor soul who looked to be helping with the sound equipment. Kurt noticed me, of course, and waved me over with an exasperated look.

It wasn’t any use. There was no way I could get out of it. I spend most of my time nowadays in the recording studio working with state-of-the-art technology—how could I possibly escape when all I was faced with was essentially a school PA system? Still, I thought about it. That is, until I saw the pleading look in Kurt’s eyes—huh. Maybe that’s how he does it—and I went to do my civic husbandly duty.

When the cake walk was over (a long, long time later), we left the music playing and went to find the twins, who had only come to us once, asking for more money to spend on the carnival games. They’d shuffled and fidgeted and looked anywhere but at the two of us before speeding off once again, and we found them hidden away at the center of a large group of friends, all splitting their attentions between the duck pond and whack-a-mole (the classics never die).

“Hep! Twist! Time to go,” I called to them, and they separated from the group with miserable faces, grumbling to each other in Twinglish. This continued all the way home, and Kurt rounded on them as soon as we set foot inside.

“Alright, you two. Out with it. What’s the problem?” he demanded, eyes flicking back and forth between them. When Oliver turned to Audrey, Kurt warned him, “no Twinglish. Speak to me.”

“Why do you guys have to be so embarrassing?” Oliver burst out, and there it was. Kurt took a deep breath, and then crouched in front of our son, who had his eyes glued to the floor.

“Were the other kids laughing at you?” he asked, quietly.

“No,” Oliver replied, and shifted from one foot to the other uncomfortably. Audrey took his hand, and it was hard, for a second, to stay focused on the point. “Not at _me.”_

“They were laughing at _us,”_ I supplied.

“Well, mostly Papa. But yeah. Especially when you danced when the cake walk was done.”

“And you feel bad because you don’t want them to laugh at us,” Kurt said, and Oliver nodded. “Twist, that’s what we’re here for. To give you two funny stories to tell. It’s only fair, when we’ve got so many about you two.”

“Like what?” Audrey cried out. Kurt stood up, and we exchanged a significant glance.

“Oh, no,” I said. “We’re hanging onto those for special occasions. Graduation, prom, weddings…”

“Daaaaad…”

So there you have it, readers. Embarrassing way before our time. But you know what? This is one parent who is more than happy to be an embarrassment. In fact, maybe I’ll drag Kurt down to the basement with me and dig out the footage of our old high school glee club performances. After all, if something’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right.

*

 **Life During Fatherhood: So Long, Farewell!**  
Posted by **Kurt** on Wednesday 30 June 2038 at 12:22PM ICT

Sawadee-krup from Koh Samui, Thailand! This entry is brought to you by one very tired (but still fabulous at all times) Kurt Hummel-Anderson, and I'm currently sitting in a departures lounge at Samui International Airport, waiting for our flight back to Bangkok (the first of three flights spanning almost a day's worth of traveling). There's a cool morning breeze flowing through the most beautiful airport in the world, and Blaine, Audrey and Oliver are curled up on the plush couches taking a nap while I sip my coffee and catch up on some emails. Today is the last day of our two-week vacation to Thailand (the ardent fans among you will remember that Blaine is on his 'Greatest Hits' tour right now—something that still makes us both laugh somewhat disbelievingly; it seems like the last 25 years of our lives have only been a week, at most) and we're heading home for his final show, at Madison Square Garden.

Our vacation has been more than welcome, and a fantastic start to the summer. Of course, there have been the usual pre-teenage grumbles ("Papa, how much further is it to the baggage claim? We must have been walking for _miles_ already." "Dad, we don't need a babysitter while you and Papa go out for dinner. We're _twelve."_ "But Papa, I don't _wanna_ ride the elephant on my own.") but we've all had a wonderful time soaking up the sun and culture, splitting our time between the hotel pool and seeing the sights—particular hits with the kids were the Mummified Monk (Oliver couldn't get over the fact that he's wearing sunglasses) and the Big Buddha, where Audrey rang the large bells in Buddhist tradition. Blaine was glad of some family downtime, after many months spent away from home. Of course, the highlight for him was Napasai's sandcastle restaurant on Ban Tai beach--"they _carved_ it out of the _sand,_ Kurt!"—but we did get a few opportunities to reconnect after missing each other for so long.

This brings me to the main point of this post. When you're single, you make decisions based almost solely on yourself and your surroundings. Your life, your situation, and ultimately what is best for you and those around you in the moment. Having a family dramatically shifts your priorities, and making decisions is always a shared endeavor.

It was here, after much discussion, that we made the decision to tell the twins about their biological mother. K has remained a huge part of their lives, and while they were shocked (to say the least), they took the news as well as could be expected. There were questions, of course, many questions, which we answered as honestly as we could. When they seemed to have all the answers they wanted (and, I hope, needed), they were sleepy and quiet, and we tucked them into their beds with quiet promises of our unconditional love.

Blaine and I let ourselves out onto the balcony and stood together for a moment, his arms around my waist as we simply breathed in, the air faintly laced with hints of jasmine, lemongrass, and Marc Jacobs' _Rain._ And we talked. We talked for hours. It was as if having that one conversation with the twins just lifted a weight we'd both been shouldering for what seemed an immeasurably long stretch of time. We reminisced about high school and college, relived nights we hadn't thought of in years, retraced our footsteps all the way to right before we became fathers.

Most of all, we talked about this blog. At some point, Blaine dragged out his laptop and we went searching back through our entries, right back to almost the very beginning when it seemed like there was no end in sight and we would be terrible parents anyway, so why were we even bothering? Why were we putting ourselves through this? There is a small number of you, not counting our friends and family from before this blog's conception (forgive the pun), that have been with us from the start, and don't think I haven't noticed that you all seem to have taken to reminding us of how far we've come. On any given day, it's easy to write off comments like that. You get so caught up in the routine of daily life that it's almost too easy to forget that there was a time B.C. (Before Children). But there was. Those early entries hurt my heart to read, and to think back on. My life has been enriched beyond belief by my children, and I couldn't help but look at Blaine and say, “look how far we've come”.

That night on the balcony, we decided that our time on this blog was coming to a close. We've been writing here and sharing our life with you all for nearly fifteen years, and as we speed toward this next phase of our lives (also known as the five years we will spend dealing with a pair of moody teenagers), we both feel that it's time to take a step back and continue the rest of the time we have left with our kids before they fly the nest in private. So it is as I sit here in Koh Samui, with some very strong Thai coffee keeping my typing speed above 90 words per minute, that I am writing to bid you all a very fond farewell. You have been a thoroughly wonderful audience, and Blaine and I cannot thank you enough for all of your support. Your sage wisdom and kind advice, given so freely and without condition. Above all, the boundless love that kept us going through those years B.C. There were times that we honestly felt like giving up, like this wasn't something that was meant for us. But now, as I look at Audrey and Oliver sleeping, and the peaceful smile on my husband's face as he dozes through the quiet bustle around us... I can say that, from the very bottom of my heart, this is something that was always meant for us. And to those of you who helped us see that at the start, and to those of you who continued to help us see that through the highs and lows, I will be forever grateful. Thank you, thank you, a thousand times thank you.

I've never been good with saying goodbye. It's not something I really know how to do, nor have ever had any desire to do. This is the man who, as a boy of seventeen, promised his boyfriend, “I'm never saying goodbye to you”, and made good on that promise. So, instead, I will take my cues from one of my favorite musicals of all time:

_So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodnight._

*

_Saturday 27 August, 2044_

“I still can't believe you've made me put pictures of my first cake walk in there,” Kurt muttered, shaking his head as he flipped to the next blank page and began rooting through his drawer of backing paper once more.

“Come on, why not? It was your greatest triumph. Those PTA moms were beside themselves,” Blaine replied, his smile easy and open, even as Kurt gazed at him sardonically.

“My greatest triumph?” At Blaine's emphatic nod, Kurt continued, “so... Not becoming a world-famous designer, not raising two beautiful kids, not beating a serious blood disorder? You're really calling my greatest triumph a cake walk?”

“In a word, yes.”

“Sometimes, Blaine, the way your mind works really concerns me.”


	20. Down to the Bone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** This chapter PG-13  
>  **Spoilers:** None.  
>  **Warnings:** Blood disorder, related medical talk, character death.  
>  **Disclaimer:** I paint the pictures; I just borrow the names.  
>  **Notes:** Eternal gratitude to my brilliant beta/cheerleader/all round enabler, Rachie, and Axe, who has been there for me through many a dark night. I'm sure most of you will have already read parts one through six of this seven-part chapter, but here it all is in one place. Head on over to my [Tumblr](http://borogroves.tumblr.com)—check out my [Snapshots Masterpost](http://borogroves.tumblr.com/snapshots) for lots of behind-the-scenes goodies. Enjoy!

**Chapter Twenty - Down to the Bone, Part 1/7**

_**Fears Grow for Health of Westwood Creative Director**  
Elliott Murphy, Friday 23 September 2039_

_Fears are growing for the health of Kurt Hummel-Anderson, Creative Director of Westwood & Hummel. All of his public appearances have been canceled over the past few weeks, including most notably Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week earlier this month, and he was last seen at August's Metropolitan Fashion Gala looking noticeably pale and thinner than usual. Olivia Johnson, Mr Hummel-Anderson's spokesperson, last week cited reasons of exhaustion for the absences._

_Mr Hummel-Anderson appears to have unofficially retired from public life for the present. His husband, chart-topping singer-songwriter and music producer Blaine Hummel-Anderson, declined to comment on the matter in a recent interview on The Today Show._

_“We would ask that you respect our right to privacy, not only for the two of us, but for our children as well,” he said, before steering the interview back towards talk of the book he and Kurt have co-written; an abridged collection of entries from their long-running blog, Life During Fatherhood, which ran from 2023 to 2038._

_Mr Hummel-Anderson has been Creative Director of Westwood since Vivienne's retirement at the age of 80, and the globally-recognized fashion house was re-branded (with her explicit permission) to Westwood & Hummel following her death at the age of 91 in 2032._

_The fashion world seems somehow quieter without Mr Hummel-Anderson, and we wish him a speedy return._

*

_Friday 30 September, 2039_

"Daddy, when will the doctors come tell us what's wrong with Papa?"

Blaine took a slow, lingering sip from his cup of caffeine—the bitter sludge the machine served didn't deserve to be called coffee, and just why was it that hospital coffee never got any better?—and sighed, his foot bouncing up and down by the heel. "I don't know, Hep. We just have to be patient while they try to help him."

_"Some smart-ass kid just tried to give me his seat on the subway. I honestly think it's time to think about hair dye, and I'd appreciate it if, as my husband, you'd support me in my choices," Blaine called out, pulling his key from the lock of the front door and closing it behind him with a resounding bang. Wiping the light sweat from his temples, he shucked out of his thin jacket and hung it up, momentarily pausing with his fingers still wrapped around the hook to let out a heavy sigh. "Also, just when is our nephew going to get sick of LEGOs? The guys in the store know my name now. And it has nothing to do with the whole 'being famous' thing."_

_There was no response, and Blaine stopped for a moment before entering the living room. He could hear soft music playing from upstairs—a cursory glance at his watch told him that, at 5:00pm, the twins were probably still doing their homework—but the usual smells of dinner cooking were decidedly absent. After setting his bag down by the couch, he meandered down the hallway toward the kitchen, running through dinner possibilities as he went—if Kurt hadn't already started making something, it probably meant that it was Blaine's once-weekly dinner night (which, maddeningly, changed every week)—but stopped short in the doorway as if he'd walked straight into a brick wall._

“I’m hungry,” Oliver complained sullenly, and Blaine’s jaw tightened by a fraction, but he deflated at the expression on his son’s face. There was barely-disguised fear in the twitch at the corners of his mouth, and abject terror laced through his blue eyes.

“Do you want some money for the vending machines, buddy?” he asked, reaching for his wallet. “There’s one just around the corner by the nurses' station.”

Oliver nodded, taking the bills and shoving them deep into his pocket. As he trudged across the waiting room, ratty denim hems alternating between trailing threads behind him and getting caught beneath the wrecked pair of DCs that Kurt abhorred, Blaine sighed. The twins had only officially been bona fide teenagers for a mere matter of months, and Oliver seemed to have embraced every stereotype he could.

“Twist, pick up your f—“ Blaine began, but cut himself short at the look on his son’s face as he turned around in the doorway. He smiled wanly, saying instead, “pick something good.”

_"Kurt?"_

_For one moment, or it might have been one thousand, everything was horrifyingly still. Kurt lay on the kitchen floor, unmoving, his skin a pallid and waxy shade of white. There was no more music, no more humming refrigerator; a howling wilderness had taken its place that buffeted Blaine's mind around and around a single, terrible thought. As he began moving toward the floor, toward Kurt, his limbs felt impossibly heavy, like he was wading through thick, viscous honey._

Audrey, on the other hand, had seemed to grow quieter. Not exactly reclusive, but she had been spending more and more time in her room as of late, researching projects and extra credit assignments. She sat next to Blaine, hands folded in her lap with legs crossed and back ramrod straight, her eyes twitching toward every nurse that passed the waiting room.

“Hep,” Blaine said quietly, taking one of her hands in his and squeezing gently, “Papa's going to be just fine, okay?”

“How do you know that? Just last week we watched that documentary—“

“I know he’ll be fine because—because he has to be,” Blaine softly intoned, tightening his diaphragm to keep control of his voice. He was not about to shatter in front of his daughter, no matter how much his heart was palpitating and stuttering in time with the uneven rhythm he kept up with his foot. “No matter how hopeless, he's always been a fighter. He's always had...” He swallowed thickly. “Courage.”

_The second his knees hit the floor and his hand grasped Kurt's, it was like catching up with himself—Kurt's unconscious features snapped into the sharpest clarity, and Blaine realized that the hand he was holding was warm._

_"Wake up, sweetheart." Blaine's voice came out as a dry rasp, and he cleared his throat, squeezing Kurt's hand tighter while he used the other to check for a pulse beneath Kurt's jaw. "Kurt, wake up. Wake up. You promised you'd never... Dammit, Kurt, wake up."_

Father and daughter sat silently as minutes dragged by, each seeming more bottomless than the one previous. Blaine's eyes rested, looking but unseeing, upon the standard issue clock mounted high on the wall in its inexplicable cage. Oliver returned, carrying three plastic containers of chicken salad and murmuring that Papa would skin them all alive if he found out they'd taken to eating chips and candy just because he was in the hospital, and Blaine's fingers dug into the plastic as if it were a lifeline.

All three were hungry without an appetite, and despite Oliver's earlier complaints and his grumbling stomach, he made no move to eat. Before long all three containers were moved to the simple, magazine-strewn coffee table, and Blaine had an arm around each of his children, Audrey and Oliver holding hands across his lap.

_Blaine shook out his trembling hand and flexed his fingers before trying once more to find that tiny, vital sign that would mean his entire world wasn't about to be ripped from the ground by its roots. There. It was weak, and Blaine counted out eleven beats over fifteen endless seconds, but it was there. The small part of him that had already retreated, feet pounding towards the horizon, came racing back, and with fumbled motions he managed to retrieve his cell phone from the pocket of his jeans and dial 911. The dispatcher's voice was kind, didn't get frustrated with him when Blaine couldn't answer all of his questions. "No, I don't know how it happened. He's not bleeding, but there's a huge bruise on the side of his neck. I don't know how long. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. Please, just get someone here soon."_

_"Blaine, darlin'?"_

When Daniel entered the waiting room at around 8:15PM, he was carrying a clipboard and his expression was grave. Blaine's heart surged into his throat, and through the sudden hush settling in his ears, he had to remind himself that Daniel always looked grave. They had been neighbors ever since moving to Brooklyn, and acquaintances much longer, given that Daniel and Julia Fleischman were Andrew’s parents.

“How is he?” Blaine asked as he stood on weak legs, Oliver and Audrey mirroring him in the moment that followed. Daniel gestured for them to sit back down, and he took the seat opposite.

"Kurt is pancytopenic, which means he has extremely low counts of all three blood cell types. Right now, his counts are almost non-existent,” Daniel explained. “We're running tests now to determine the cause, and he's receiving a blood transfusion to bring his counts back up.”

“What could it be?” Blaine asked automatically, before shaking his head and covering his mouth with his hand.

“It could be a number of things; some serious, some very easily treatable,” Daniel said, his tone one of reassurance. Retrieving a pen from the top pocket of his white coat, he regarded Blaine seriously. “What can you tell me about the symptoms Kurt has been displaying recently?”

_Blaine's head snapped up at the twang of Julia's voice, and it took every last shred of energy to keep from breaking down right in front of her as she rounded the corner into the kitchen. As he came back to himself, the first thing that registered in his mind was the thick, homely scent of the pie that she was carrying on a folded-up dish towel. Ever the calm and collected Southern belle, when she caught sight of Kurt, she quickly put the pie down on the kitchen island and knelt next to Blaine. The only outwardly signs of her anxiety were the pursed set of her lips, the slight widening of her eyes, and the way she didn't automatically reach up to fix the few stray curls that had escaped from behind her ear._

_"He's breathin'."_

_"Yes," Blaine answered, though it wasn't phrased as a question. "Julia, I don't even know what happened. I got home and found him like this."_

“He’s been looking pale, paler than usual. Um, he’s been tired… His assistant mentioned that he’s been taking power-naps at the office lately,” Blaine said, wracking his brain for anything else out of the ordinary. Daniel nodded along, crossing off a few things on his clipboard. “He had a cold a few weeks ago, and he was coughing a lot, but…”

“Any jaundice, rashes or ulcers on the skin?”

Blaine shook his head, taking Oliver’s hand and feeling Audrey’s curl around his elbow. “Not that I know of,” he answered, and Daniel crossed off something else.

“Has Kurt complained of shortness of breath, or palpitations?”

“He was a little out of breath at the gym last week, but I just figured he was pushing himself too hard.”

“And what about bleeding? Has Kurt had any nose bleeds recently, or bruising that he can’t explain?”

“I don’t know, I…” Blaine trailed off, shaking his head again and sucking a steadying breath through his gritted teeth. He should have been paying more attention, he should have seen this coming, he should have made more of an effort to get things at the studio wrapped up quickly each day so that he could be at home more—

“Alright,” Daniel said gently, removing the half-moon glasses perched upon his nose and nodding at his clipboard. “Well, that’s certainly narrowed it down somewhat. We’re keeping him here overnight for observation, given how long he was unconscious for.”

_"Ollie and Auds?" Julia asked, resting the back of her hand against Kurt's forehead._

_"Upstairs," Blaine said automatically, and his stomach dropped even further. "Jesus, the kids. I didn't even think."_

_"Shh, darlin'. Of course you didn't. You stay with your husband, now, I'll go fetch Daniel and then we'll worry about the kids."_

“Is he awake now? Can we see him, Dr Fleischman?” Audrey asked in a small voice, and Daniel smiled genially at her.

“Of course, my dear.”

They were cutting it close, with visiting hours ending at 9PM, but Blaine wasn’t about to waste minutes he could be spending by his husband’s side bemoaning the amount of time they had together—that was an important lesson that they’d learned all too well over the years, through separations as a result of both college and work. Daniel accompanied them the short distance down the corridor to Kurt’s room, and as Oliver and Audrey disappeared inside, Blaine stopped and turned to face him.

“You can be honest with me,” Blaine said. “Is this something serious, or something easily treatable?”

“We’ve subjected Kurt to a lot of tests this evening, and there will probably be a lot more,” Daniel said evenly. “In addition to presenting as pancytopenic, Kurt also has a very low reticulocyte count. If I were to make a guess, based upon the results so far and what you’ve told me… I’ve ordered a bone marrow biopsy to confirm, and to rule out a few other things, but I think what we’re looking at is aplastic anemia.”

“So what happens next?”

Daniel shifted his clipboard from one arm to the other and laid a comforting hand on Blaine’s shoulder. “What happens next is that you go spend some time with your husband and kids, because they need you right now. We won’t know anything until the morning, but I promise you that he is in the best possible hands. I have a great team, and we’re going to do everything we can,” Daniel assured him, and Blaine suddenly pictured him walking with a cane and berating three young doctors inside a glass-walled office.

_"Thank you," Blaine breathed, though his attention was already back on Kurt, still lying motionless on the wooden flooring. Julia hurried through the back door and out into the yard, shouting for her husband at the top of her lungs. Blaine wrapped both of his hands around Kurt's, and held on even tighter, whispering, "Come back to me."_

It took everything for Blaine not to let his shoulders slump, his knees buckle, and crumple bodily to the depressing green linoleum beneath his feet. The walls seemed to press in on him from all sides, the air was suffocatingly potent with the scent of bleach-masked sickness, and every last cell inside his body seemed steeled for impact. The impact of what, Blaine neither knew nor, really, wanted to know. Dragging his eyes up to meet Daniel’s, Blaine nodded and crossed the short distance between where they had been standing and the door to Kurt’s room.

The kids were already perched in chairs either side of Kurt’s bed, and Kurt was in the middle of a hushed reassurance that he was going to be perfectly fine when he caught sight of Blaine standing in the open doorway. After hesitating only for a second, Blaine moved across the room and wrapped his husband into a tight embrace, whispering a litany of gratitude against the too-cold skin of his neck.

* * *

**Down to the Bone, Part 2/7**  
 _Wednesday 5 October, 2039_

Daniel Fleischman, M.D.’s office was as good an example as any of his wife’s impeccable taste. His desk was a deep mahogany with a glass top, and there were two Mondrian reproductions hung one on top of the other between the two tall windows that faced the courtyard garden at the back of the hospital. His degrees and medical certificates were arranged so that, when one sat opposite him in either of the plush, welcoming chairs, they appeared to encircle his head in the style of a stained-glass saint’s halo. The walls were two-and-two, alternated between a smooth beige and a light grass green that served to both complement the furniture and soothe the spirit.

As soon as Daniel showed them into his office—unfamiliar to Kurt, having never before been treated at Mount Sinai—Kurt finally felt himself relax into the firm surety of Blaine’s arm around his waist. He had awoken to a pillow soaked with blood after having had a nosebleed during the night—unsurprising, considering how he had eventually fallen asleep. It had left him feeling dazed, shaken, and panicked—what if he had been sleeping on his back?

_Tentatively, exhaustedly, Kurt turned onto his side and folded his arm up beneath his head, the digits of sometime past midnight seared across his darkened vision when he closed his wide-awake eyes. He had been in bed for hours, dozing on and off to begin with but wide awake ever since Blaine had traced fingertips along the sunken line of Kurt’s collarbone and crept from the room. It had been more than an hour and he still hadn’t returned._

_Restlessly turning onto his back, Kurt let his hands drift beneath the covers, coming to rest in tandem on his hollow stomach. His fingertips pressed into the bruises that had without explanation blossomed across the skin there, and while he winced at the dull sting, he was nonetheless grateful for it. The discomfort, the insomnia, the constant feeling of being too small for his skin, it all reminded him that he was still alive._

“How’re you feeling, Kurt?” Daniel asked when they were all seated. His hands were loosely clasped together atop the unassuming manila folder on the desk before him, and Kurt couldn’t help the way his attention kept flicking towards it, knowing that it contained his test results, the official diagnosis and his treatment plan.

“Tired, and… Anxious, but mainly tired,” Kurt answered plainly, Blaine’s grip on his hand tightening infinitesimally.

“Have your symptoms worsened at all since you were discharged?”

“I had a nosebleed last night, while I was asleep. The fatigue is worse, but it’s been hard to sleep.”

Daniel nodded, taking his half-moon glasses from the pocket of his white coat and putting them on as he opened the folder. “That’s to be expected,” he said, his tone one of reassurance that everything was as normal as could be. “Kurt, I… I have to tell you that the official diagnosis of your condition is acquired aplastic anemia.”

_Waking up in the ambulance wearing an oxygen mask coupled with the expression of soul-wrenching grief on Blaine’s face as it swam into view had been the most terrifying moment of Kurt’s life. Until the young EMT with kind eyes had calmly informed him that he’d lost consciousness, he could hear the heart monitor beeping faster and faster and had been convinced he had followed in his father’s footsteps and had a heart attack, even though the last thing he had been able to remember was a wash of dizziness, and hopping down from his seat at the island to pour himself a glass of water._

_In the wake of the consuming fear that he’d had to swallow like a jagged razor blade so as not to worry the twins when they had quietly stepped into his hospital room, gazes downcast and hands wrung, the rest of it was negligible. According to Daniel and his team, his life wasn’t in any immediate danger, and he would know more about the seemingly long road ahead the next morning._

Slumping back into his seat, Kurt looked down at his and Blaine’s joined hands, the skin of his own so much paler than usual. He could feel the skittering pulse at Blaine’s wrist, racing as fast as a wild hare.

“Could—“ Kurt cleared his throat, his voice sounding much weaker than usual. Everything about him was weak lately, and already he couldn’t stand it. “Could you explain to us again just what that is?”

“Aplastic anemia is a rare blood disorder,” Daniel began heavily, clearly struggling to keep his voice steady and retain a note of reassurance. “It occurs when the bone marrow stops producing new hematopoietic stem cells, which eventually results in extremely low levels of red and white blood cells and platelets. The only known cause is autoimmunity, when the white blood cells mistakenly attack the bone marrow, but that’s not the case here. We… We don’t know why it’s happened to you, I’m afraid.”

_Squinting over at the alarm clock again, Kurt yawned, slowly slid his legs from beneath the covers and sat up, arms trembling as he braced himself on the edge of the bed. He took three slow, deep breaths before getting to his feet and making his way, step by weary step, from the bedroom. Feeling his way along the wall with heavy fingers, he followed the strip of light shining from the door to Blaine’s studio, left slightly ajar. Upon reaching the door after what felt like minutes, he took a moment to lean his forehead against the cool wood of the frame and wait for the lightheadedness to recede once more to the low-level state of constancy it had occupied for the previous couple of months._

_There had been times, in the days since his hospital stay, where Kurt wondered aloud to Blaine what might have happened if he hadn’t been so stubborn and had made an appointment with their usual doctor, or even quietly talked to Daniel on one of the Sunday evenings that he and Julia hosted dinner._

_“The outcome would have still been the same, sweetheart,” Blaine had told him. “We might have avoided the fright of our lives, but…”_

_“I know,” Kurt had managed, chasing warmth as he pressed himself flush against Blaine’s side in their cocoon of blankets. He had apologized, over and over until Blaine had finally silenced him with his lips upon Kurt’s, body slowly moving against him with the arcane knowledge learned over a thousand nights and more until they had spent themselves entirely._

“Is it something I did?” Kurt asked, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that his body was rebelling against him, that he had no control whatsoever over it. It was a hard idea to stomach.

Daniel shook his head, his hand sliding forward across the desk but stopping halfway, as if he were trying to reach out as a friend yet knowing that in his current capacity, he was unable. “No, Kurt. Absolutely not. There can sometimes be certain environmental and/or medical factors at play, but from both your medical notes and what I know of your lifestyle, there’s no reason to think it was something that you’ve done.”

Kurt nodded numbly, turning his head to glance out the window at the courtyard. A scattering of patients shuffled around on the arms of nurses or family members, bundled up in robes and slippers and holding on to IVs. Would he soon be counting himself among them? Would he be shuffling around with the weight of ill health bearing down upon him like his own personal boulder?

_Kurt slowly pushed the door open, blinking sluggishly as his eyes adjusted to the brightness that spilled out, and shuffled into the meticulously-kept studio. His chest tightened as he glanced through the glass partition of the sound booth and saw Blaine hunched over an enormous leather-bound book, one hand scrubbing back and forth through his wild curls while he alternated between turning pages and wiping away free-falling tears with the other._

_Blaine didn’t seem to notice that Kurt was there until Kurt’s hand was on his wrist, fingers trailing along the sleeve of his striped Henley to curl into the crease of his elbow. He started, a ragged breath tearing at his cluttered throat, and immediately pulled Kurt down to sit across his lap, arms winding around his waist and clinging tightly as he choked out around a sob, “I can’t make any fucking sense out of it, Kurt.”_

“So what happens now?” Kurt heard Blaine asking, and came some of the way back to himself. His ‘far away’ episodes were becoming more and more frequent as the blood transfusion he had received wore thin, and after having had so many consecutive, entirely lucid days, it was terrifying. He had thought it was just as a result of the stress of balancing work and family—Kurt had always been in control, yet the loss had been so gradual that he hadn’t even noticed. Unburdening himself to Blaine the previous night had thrown him completely, and he had woken up that morning with his sketchy grasp almost entirely shot. “Where do we go from here?”

“Under normal circumstances, immunosuppressive therapy would be the best course of action, in order to suppress the immune system long enough for it to reset, so to speak. But, as this hasn’t been caused by an autoimmune disorder, I have to recommend a bone marrow transplant,” Daniel said gravely, and Kurt was snapped out of his daze completely, his eyes widening. “There are risks, given your age, but my team believes it’ll be the best possible option for you.”

_“Shh, sweetheart. Make sense out of what?”_

_“This,” Blaine said, gesturing to the book. Kurt turned and flipped the book closed, taking in the deep red cover emblazoned with the title ‘Williams Hematology’. “I’ve been researching online but it just wouldn’t make any sense, so I thought… A book, I could highlight and make notes in the margin. It always helped, back in school, but this… There was a reason I never became a doctor.”_

_“Baby, why didn’t you just wait until we see Daniel tomorrow?”_

_Blaine closed his eyes tightly, and when he exhaled his shoulders slumped, tension leaching from them as if they were being wrung of water. “Because—because tomorrow is going to be about treatment plans and going forward and first I needed to understand why this horrible fucking illness chose my husband,” he said, heat flaring behind the flat words. “I have to understand, Kurt, I have to—“_

“Could I be the donor? If Kurt and I are the same blood type, I mean?” Blaine asked, and Kurt shook his head. They were not the same blood type, and no matter how many times Kurt told him that, Blaine never remembered.

“Being a match for donating bone marrow isn’t just about having a matching blood type,” Daniel said, hands splayed in front of him. “In fact, some donors and recipients have completely different blood types. It’s also far safer, in terms of the risk of graft-versus-host disease, for the donated cells to come from a blood-related sibling.”

“I don’t have any,” Kurt said.

“In that case, we would look next to a parent or…” Daniel trailed off, pausing momentarily before visibly steeling himself and dragging his gaze to meet Kurt’s. “If necessary, a child.”

“No. Absolutely not,” Kurt said vehemently, shaking his head even though it made his vision swim. “No. My dad is pushing seventy, and the twins… No. I’m not asking them to do that. They’re far too young.”

“Kurt,” Daniel began, his tone both gentle and firm. “The chances of graft-versus-host occurring post-transplant increase significantly when the donor is unrelated to the recipient. I don't want the twins put at risk any more than you do but if there were another option, believe me, we wouldn’t need to be having this conversation.”

_Silently, Kurt reached up and placed his hand over Blaine’s mouth, a kiss to his cheek, his temple, into his mussed hair. “You needed to break down, but you didn’t feel like you could do it in front of me or the kids. Am I right?”_

_His breathing shaky and shallow, Blaine nodded against Kurt’s chest, fingers digging into the flesh of his upper arm so hard that Kurt was sure there would be bruises come morning. “Blaine, come back to bed and let it out where I can hold you.”_

_“No. No, you don’t need to be dealing with this right now, I’m sorry,” Blaine replied, the words tripping over themselves in his haste to apologize. “I’m sorry, this is about you and what we can do to get you better, not about me having coping issues.”_

_“Blaine, come back to bed,” Kurt said firmly, taking his hand and weakly dragging him from the room._

“Sweetheart—“

“Blaine, no! I am not putting either of my children through a painful surgery when it’s completely unnecessary. Surely… Surely you can find another match,” Kurt pleaded with Daniel, begging with every last fiber that there was another way. He closed his eyes, and all he could see before him were Audrey and Oliver, needles as long as his forearm being pushed through the malleable barriers of their skin as they lay motionless under the effects of general anesthetic.

“What are the figures?” Blaine asked, turning back to Daniel. “The percentages?”

Daniel sighed, clasping his hands once more and leaning forward on his desk, and Kurt’s eyes slipped closed as he pinched at the bridge of his nose. “For a matched sibling donor, the chances of graft-versus-host occurring are around twenty percent. For a donor from a relative, around forty. For a completely unrelated match, the chance increases to around eighty percent. Everyone should be tested, and as soon as possible.”

_Swathed beneath the soft blankets of their bed, Blaine wrapped his fingers around Kurt’s wrist and tangled their legs at the knees, his warm breath ghosting across Kurt’s cheek._

_“How can you be so calm?” he asked. “I’ve barely been holding it together these past few days, and you’re so calm.”_

_Kurt opened his mouth with every intention of stressing the importance of keeping himself collect—he didn’t want to add raised blood pressure to his already weakened state. “I’m not calm, Blaine. I’m fucking terrified,” was what came out instead, and before he knew it, the lump in his throat that had been there since waking up in the ambulance expanded into a gasping sob, and he screwed his eyes shut in an attempt to hold back the tears that stung in their unexpectedness, but it was already too late._

_They wept, and in the darkness they held one another until, a long time later, their wrecked bodies finally succumbed to the uneasy tendrils of sleep._

Opening his eyes, Kurt stood and walked over to the window, once more looking out at the patients in the courtyard below. He crossed his arms over his chest as he considered them; their tentative and shaky steps, the hunch of their backs, the sickly pallor of their skin from too great a part of the day spent inside under artificial lighting.

Eighty percent. An eighty percent chance that not only would he be in hospital for any stretch of time, but a long one at that. He abhorred the fact that he was even considering his children for something so dangerous, so invasive, but the more carefully he considered it, the more his knee-jerk reaction appeared to him unwise. There was no way of knowing how long those patients had been in the hospital, how many days, weeks, even months they spent seeing their families for a matter of hours each day. How long it had been since they had last tucked their children into warm and yielding beds before slipping between the sheets of their own and into a waiting partner’s arms?

Blaine’s hand appeared warm at the small of his back, and Kurt sighed heavily. “I don’t want them to have to do this,” he whispered.

“They might not have to,” Blaine answered. “But if there’s even a chance…”

“I know,” Kurt said, and after one last lingering look outside, turned to face Daniel. “Alright. Tell us what we need to do.”

* * *

**Down to the Bone, Part 3/7**  
 _Saturday 29 October, 2039_

Phone pressed against his ear, hair messy and eyes wild, Blaine burst through the door to the apartment and ran down the hallway, attention immediately zoning in on Oliver’s mass of curls over the back of the couch. The TV was switched on, tuned to one of the cartoons that Oliver loved but had declared ‘uncool’ months previously. There was a huge bag of chips, three candy bars, and a bottle of Diet Coke sitting untouched on the coffee table, and as Blaine moved closer, he could see Oliver’s arms wrapped around his knees, chin resting atop them.

“He’s here,” he breathed, and at the other end of the connection, Kurt sighed in relief. Oliver didn’t even flinch, like he’d known it was only a matter of time.

“Honey, don’t be too hard on him. Okay?”

“Okay. I’ll see you at the hospital.”

Oliver winced at the mention of the word ‘hospital’ but was still otherwise silent.

“Twist, what the hell were you thinking?” Blaine demanded, hands on his hips as he shoved his phone into his pocket, the tone of relief in Kurt’s voice having somewhat calmed the anger and worry that had reached beyond boiling point with every passing minute on the 2 from Borough Hall to 96th Street.

_The test results arrived slowly. Both Kurt and Blaine’s families and all of their close friends were tested, just in case. It had been a condition of Kurt agreeing to Audrey and Oliver both being tested—exhaust all other possible avenues first, then pursue their last resort option before looking into the donor registry._

_Results from Lima and Los Angeles came first. There wasn’t a single match from Carole, Finn and his family, Fiona, Mercedes or Wes—all very much long-shots, but when Blaine had called to give them the news of Kurt’s ill health a day ahead of the press release, they had all volunteered to be tested before the words could even leave Blaine’s mouth. Burt had been closest, with a four-point match, but with two of the unmatched loci being Class I, there was no way that the doctors would have let him donate even if he was thirty years younger and in perfect health._

_Over the course of the following week, they received visits from Toby and Andrew, Cooper and Kristy, Rachel and Dominic, along with phone calls from Jeff and Stuart, all bearing bad news. Even Julia had been tested, and when she couldn’t give them good news, she brought over warm berry strudel which she and Kurt ate at the kitchen island, holding hands in silence._

_Blaine tried not to notice how Kurt seemed to wilt after every non-match, even in the hours right after his weekly transfusion—the brief window of time when Kurt was something like his old self, and they were almost able to forget what was happening. Almost. The circles decreased, Kurt’s hospital admission date grew closer, and soon there were only three options remaining before it became necessary to look at the donor registry._

Oliver just shrugged, his face ashen, and kept his eyes trained on the floor. His school backpack lay on its side next to him on the couch, looking mostly empty—it seemed to Blaine like a mostly half-hearted attempt at running away, given that he had come to one of two places, other than home, that he knew and could easily access.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” he grumbled.

“Well, that’s too bad, because we are talking about it.”

“You can’t make me,” Oliver retorted, glancing up at the clock and continuing, just as Blaine was opening his mouth to argue his point further, “you’re gonna be late.”

“Don’t for a second think that I’m leaving you here,” Blaine said, “especially seeing as you’re the reason I’ll be late.”

Oliver shrank back into the couch even further, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, and Blaine sighed, the last of his anger draining from him. Slowly, he sat down next to Oliver and placed a hand on his knee.

_The night before Blaine and the twins were due at the testing center, Blaine was gripping Kurt tightly by the elbow as they slowly made their way upstairs to bed, one step at a time while Kurt’s breathing became increasingly labored and Blaine considered for the umpteenth time turning the den into a temporary bedroom._

_“Thank god… I have my trans… fusion tomorrow,” Kurt panted when they reached the landing, gazing at the final three steps after the turn as if they were his own personal Everest. Wordlessly, and even though they had fought about it before, Blaine pulled Kurt’s arm over his shoulders and slipped his own beneath Kurt’s knees to pick him up and carry him the rest of the way. Kurt’s forehead was slick with sweat when he pressed against Blaine’s neck and curled into him, murmuring tiredly into his sweater. “I’m sorry that I’m… putting all of you through this.”_

_“Just let me take care of you,” Blaine told him as Kurt reached down to turn the door handle, the memory blossoming in his mind’s eye of Kurt twenty years younger, giggling and fumbling as he attempted to slot their key card into the door of their honeymoon suite in the Maldives. “You know I’m awesome at taking care of you.”_

_Blaine set Kurt down on the edge of the bed, and stopped mid-turn as Kurt weakly gripped his hand and tried to slow his breathing. “None of you should have… to do this. I don’t want this; I don’t… want any of it.”_

“Look, Twist. Right now, you’re grounded, which means you have to come with me. If you don’t want to talk about whatever’s bothering you, that’s fine. I’m not gonna force you. But what’s bothering me right now is that I’m terrified of needles and I need someone to hold my hand. And I know that you don’t like hospitals, so maybe we can help each other out, here. What do you say?”

“Fine,” Oliver said grudgingly, able to tell that it was the best he could hope for but still not liking it one bit. He started when the buzzer rang, but Blaine simply stood, picked up Oliver’s backpack and handed it to him.

“That’s just the car service,” he said reassuringly. “I ordered it on the way here.”

Oliver shrugged again, looping the straps over his arms, and followed Blaine out of the apartment.

_“You know, I think Twist’s really hoping it’ll be him.”_

_“For the love of… Why?”_

_Blaine shrugged. “You know what teenage boys are like. He just wants something cool to show off to his friends. I think he’s under the impression that there’ll be some huge surgery,” he said, before quietly adding, “he’s really scared for you. He won’t say it, but haven’t you noticed that he’s been behaving himself better?”_

_“Of course I have, but I just thought… that he was coming out of his phase.”_

_“He’s worried about you, sweetheart. We all are. But that doesn’t mean that you’re going to sit here feeling guilty about us all being put through something we shouldn’t be. This is not your fault, okay? Daniel told you that,” Blaine reminded him, sitting down and taking Kurt’s hand between both of his own. He smiled when Kurt shakily placed his other on top, as he did every time they were talking seriously—old habits die hard. “Besides, I… Kurt, don’t you know how much I want to be a match for you? I know how unlikely it is, I do. I know that one of the twins is your best shot now. But I also know that if that’s something we can avoid, I’ll do everything I can. And that’s not the only reason, it’s—“_

_“You still want to feel like my knight,” Kurt supplied, a small smile reaching the very corners of his eyes. “You are, you know, you always… have been. You don’t have to rescue me for… that to still apply.”_

_“You’re still my oak tree,” Blaine whispered, settling his arm around Kurt’s shoulders and kissing his temple, his lips pausing there for far longer than usual. More and more, he was noticing that every touch lately had a lingering quality to it. Each time they kissed, it was slower. Each look was no mere glance, but a commitment to learn by heart. Each moment felt like an opportunity to catalog memory all over again, just in case. Swallowing hard, he shook himself and lifted Kurt’s chin so that he was looking straight into Blaine’s eyes, and he attempted again—as he did every time, for they changed so often—to memorize their color, the pattern of each fleck of green, the darkness of the blue that outlined his irises. “Kurt, no matter what happens with these tests… No matter what happens, everything is going to be fine. I promise.”_

As it turned out, they reached the hospital with about ten minutes to spare. Thankfully, there were no paparazzi hanging around, but Blaine still kept Oliver close.

Once Blaine had signed in, they quickly made their way to the Blood Donor Center, where a nurse greeted them with a tired but bright smile and immediately took them into a large, airy room where there were already three other people donating. Blaine stopped just inside the doorway, taking a few deep, bracing breaths. He had been afraid of needles for as long as he could remember; right back to when he was four or five years old and screaming in his mother’s lap at the doctor’s office when getting a shot. It was a part of why he’d been so surprised to discover his tattoo the day after the bachelor party.

Over the years, he’d learned to grit his teeth and bear it whenever he needed a shot for a vacation, or to have his blood drawn for a routine check-up. A platelet donation, however, was very different—the needle would be in his arm for anywhere up to two hours.

“Dad, come on. Don’t be a sissy,” Oliver said quietly, nudging him in the side and glancing up at him sheepishly, as if hoping he wasn’t already overstepping his boundaries so soon after getting into trouble. Under normal circumstances, he probably would have been, but right then Blaine didn’t have the heart to admonish him for it.

_Two weeks later, at nine a.m. on the last Saturday in October, the twins hadn’t yet come down for breakfast, and Blaine was sitting on the couch with Kurt’s head in his lap, running his fingers through his hair and trying not to think too hard about anything other than the even sounds of Kurt’s breathing as he dozed to the sounds of the cooking channel. The morning was calm, storms overnight having left behind a blue sky punctured with a weakly shining sun and a fresh scent that rode the breeze Blaine had taken in on the balcony shortly after waking. It soothed him, particularly given the fact that he had an appointment at the hospital to donate platelets after lunch. Just the thought of a shot made him shudder, let alone a needle that stayed in his arm for any length of time._

_Carefully and deliberately, he pushed all thoughts of his appointment aside and was focusing once more on the sensation of Kurt’s soft hair against the pads of his callused fingers when the doorbell rang and Kurt started back into wakefulness. His eyes were bloodshot and wild as he quickly sat up, hands slowly moving to cradle his head from the inevitable onrush of dizziness. Gently squeezing Kurt’s shoulder with one hand, Blaine made his way out of the living room and down the hall._

It wasn’t long before one of the nurses, Carly, was showing Blaine to one of the eight reclining chairs that lined the edges of the stark room, an imposing machine waiting next to it. He answered Carly’s questions as quickly as he could while she measured his blood pressure, wanting for it to be underway as soon as possible, and automatically turned his head away when he caught the barest flash of silver from the corner of his eye.

“So Grandpa says the Buckeyes should do great this season,” Oliver said as he grabbed Blaine’s hand, eyes trained on his. “Rhodes had an injury in the fourth quarter when they played Illinois last month but he’s nearly better, and they’ve managed without him. The last couple seasons have been really bad, but Grandpa said they’ve got new coaches and they’ve changed the line-up, and they’ve been doing really good so far.”

“Well, look at that. You didn’t feel a thing,” Carly said with a smile, and Blaine tore his eyes away from Oliver’s to glance at his arm, where the needle was already in place and covered by a wad of gauze, and she was affixing strips of surgical tape down the length of his arm to keep the tubing in place. “Your son knows the score, doesn’t he?”

“Thanks, buddy,” Blaine murmured, and Oliver ducked his head.

“Just wanted to help,” he replied, and glanced around at the equipment. Pointing at the machine that had whirred into life just before the tube from Blaine’s arm had filled, he asked Carly, “what’s that?”

“That’s called a centrifuge,” she said. “What we’re actually doing for your dad is apheresis, which means we’re only taking one part of the blood.”

_When he opened the door, it was to see Daniel holding a thin white envelope and wearing his ‘doctor face’, as Blaine called it—expression pleasant yet impassive and betraying a whole lot of nothing._

_“Come in,” he said immediately, stepping aside to let Daniel pass. “How are you?”_

_Daniel paused, smiled a tired smile that didn’t reach his exhausted eyes, and his mask slipped just a little. “One of my patients passed away a few hours ago. She was nine years old.”_

_“Daniel, I’m—“ Blaine stopped, unable to keep himself from imagining the same fate for either of the twins. The mere thought was too much to bear. Instead of attempting to offer empty platitudes to the man he had long thought of as a surrogate father, he simply repeated, “How are you?”_

_“It never gets any easier, not even at my age,” Daniel answered, shaking his head. His eyes flicked over Blaine’s shoulder, and he silently held up the envelope._

_“I’m guessing those are the test results,” Blaine said—after so many years, he knew when to let sleeping dogs lie._

_“Yes,” Daniel replied, all business as he continued, “I would have called first, but since I was on my way home anyway…”_

“Platelets, right?”

“You’ve got it. What the centrifuge does is spin the blood really fast so that we can separate the platelets out and just take those,” Carly said.

“What happens to them after that?” Oliver asked, dropping Blaine’s hand and moving around to the other side of the chair. Carly winked at Blaine as if to say, I’ve got this, and Blaine watched as Oliver’s eyes roved over the equipment.

“They get collected into this bag right here,” she told him, pointing at the clear, empty bag hanging over the centrifuge.

“And then what?”

“You’re asking a lot of questions, kiddo,” Carly said. “You’re really interested in this stuff, huh?”

“It’s pretty cool,” Oliver conceded.

“Well, after we’ve got all we need, the red blood cells and plasma go back to your dad, and we store the platelets until somebody needs them. We have to put a special agent in there to make sure that they don’t clot while they’re being stored—“

“Because the platelets are what make you stop bleeding, right? So they’ll start clotting if you don’t stop them first?”

“How did you know that, buddy?” Blaine asked, pride blossoming from deep in his chest.

“Audrey told me,” Oliver said, before explaining to Carly, “that’s my sister. She reads, like, everything. She’s a total geek.”

_Blaine led the way back into the living room, stomach twisting uncomfortably at the sight of Kurt slumped on the couch, eyes dull as he took them in. Blaine never would have thought that so much energy went into how Kurt usually held himself, even whilst sitting—for so long, it had been second nature. Daniel took the seat opposite Kurt just as Blaine bent to wrap a blanket around his husband’s shaking shoulders before sitting down and pulling him close to rub at his arms in an effort to get him warm again._

_“How are you, Kurt?” Daniel asked._

_“By a healthy person’s definition, I feel like I’ve been hit by a freight train. By my own, I’m feeling as well as can be expected for a person with no blood,” Kurt answered wryly, eyes resting on the envelope Daniel had placed on the coffee table._

_“Your transfusion is this afternoon?”_

_“Yes. Are those the test results?” he asked, without further preamble._

_After taking a deep breath, Daniel nodded._

_“Do we have a match?” Blaine asked, heart simultaneously sinking and swelling._

_After a long pause, he said, “We have two.”_

_“Both of the twins?” Kurt asked, his voice laced with something close to despair. Blaine gripped his hand tightly—how could they possibly try to choose?_

_“Actually… No. Boys, I’m so sorry, but Oliver wasn’t a match.”_

_There was a beat of absolute, terrible silence as the unspoken truth behind those five words sank in—up until right at that moment, while neither Kurt nor Blaine could deny that Oliver looked more like Blaine, had inherited his curly hair and slight physique, they had never known for certain which of them was his biological father. It changed nothing, of course, aside from the fact that their hands squeezed just that fraction tighter._

“I don’t blame her,” Carly laughed before Blaine could interject. “This stuff is pretty cool, right?”

Oliver nodded, eyes lighting up. “So, do these platelets go to my dad?”

Carly shot Blaine a brief, confused look before realization dawned. “You have two dads, honey?” At Oliver’s answering nod, she continued, “I’ve got two moms myself. Hey, you wanna switch some time? I bet they drive you crazy, right?”

Oliver grinned and shook his head. “Nah, they’re mostly pretty awesome,” he said. “My Papa’s here to get a blood transfusion today. He has aplastic anemia.”

“Oh, honey. I’m so sorry. Is that why you came with your dad, to keep him company?”

“He’s a flight risk,” Blaine supplied when Oliver remained silent, his cheeks flushing.

“Ah, say no more,” Carly said smoothly, before returning her attention to the centrifuge. “To answer your question, these platelets aren’t going to your other dad, I’m afraid. It doesn’t say on the notes that it’s a direct donation, so they’ll go straight to the lab.”

“We’re different blood types, otherwise that’s what we would have done,” Blaine told him, “but the doctors said I have more platelets than average, so I decided it’d be a good idea to start donating, to help other people like Papa.”

“But if you’re different blood types, how come—“ Oliver stopped, jaw clenching, and Blaine glanced up at Carly.

“Could you maybe give us a minute?”

_“We have a match from Audrey, and… from you,” Daniel said, looking at Blaine and hastily continuing, “now, I know that neither of you wanted one of your children to be the donor, but—“_

_“But Blaine’s a match? He could be my donor?” Kurt interrupted, and Blaine sat forward, breathing an inward sigh of relief. He wouldn’t have to watch either of his children being put under, wouldn’t have to pace a waiting room while the procedure was done, wouldn’t have to ache for them as he watched them wince with every step taken. Their lives wouldn’t be put at risk, they would be safe, he had the power to potentially save his husband…_

_“Both Blaine and Audrey are six-point matches, but… Kurt, please think about this. With Blaine being an unrelated donor, the chances of not only graft-versus-host disease, but outright rejection, are almost double. If the cells are rejected, we’d have to go through the entire process again, from start to finish,” Daniel informed him, his calm demeanor faltering for only a second before he steeled himself once more. “For the best possible chance, I strongly advise you to consider your daughter.”_

_“And I strongly advise you to put yourself in my place,” Kurt retorted, his voice heated with a fervor that Blaine hadn’t heard for weeks. “The way I see it, I have two options. I can be selfish, take the easy option and ask my daughter to undergo a scary procedure and endure days, if not weeks, of pain afterward simply because it gives me a smaller chance of contracting a secondary disease. Or… Or I can take up my husband on his offer of trying to save my life in order to not put our child at risk. If you were me, and you had to choose between Julia and thirteen-year-old Andrew, who would you choose?”_

_At Daniel’s stunned and somewhat guilty silence, Kurt sat back, seemingly satisfied yet exhausted even from such a short outburst. The expression on his face read frustration and heartache, and he looked at Blaine with a question in his yawning eyes._

_“Of course I will,” he answered._

Carly excused herself quietly, patting Oliver’s shoulder and saying she’d be back in about ten minutes or so. Oliver stood by the chair, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and looking at the centrifuge, the transfusion bag, anywhere other than Blaine.

“Twist, can you come sit down?”

Hesitantly, Oliver made his way back around the end of the chair and sat on the very edge of the seat next to Blaine, his body leaning forwards as if poised for a quick getaway. “Am I gonna get punished now?”

Blaine laughed. “No, buddy. I can’t do much punishing from here, can I? I mean, I’d still like to know what happened, but…” he trailed off, scratching at the side of his neck and through his hair. “I think sometimes, it’s easy to forget that you’re going through this as well. Your Papa’s sick, and I’m trying to take care of everyone, but I don’t think I’ve been doing a very good job, have I?”

“You’ve been doing okay,” Oliver mumbled, looking uncomfortable even as he said it. He glanced around as if to make sure no one was listening before he said, “I kinda like your food better than Papa’s.”

“Because there’s only vegetables that you like?”

“Because there’s more pizza,” Oliver clarified, and Blaine couldn’t help but let out another laugh.

“Don’t get too used to it. If Papa has any say, he’ll be back on his feet in no time,” he said tightly, unsure of whether he was trying to convince his son or himself.

“But he won’t be, right? Like, it’s gonna take a long time for him to get better?” he asked, adding after a moment, “you can tell me, Dad. I won’t, like, _cry_ or anything.”

_An hour and a half later, when Daniel had long since left and Blaine’s thoughts of breakfast were turning to brunch given the fact that the twins still had yet to show their faces, Audrey came running into the living room, her face red, hair wild, almost tripping over her too-long pajama pants._

_“Honey, what’s wrong?” Kurt asked, sitting up slowly as she came skidding to a stop in front of the coffee table._

_“I can’t find Ollie.”_

_“What do you mean?” he asked carefully, stomach lurching. “Were you playing a game?”_

_“He sneaked down here to listen when we heard the doorbell and when he came back up he wouldn’t tell me what was wrong and just went back into his room and turned his music on and now I can’t find him. And I know he’ll totally hate me but I just looked in his—in the place where he keeps his allowance and it’s all gone. I tried to find him, Daddy, I promise, because I didn’t want you and Papa to get upset.”_

Oliver was scared, that much would have been obvious to anyone. Most days, it felt like Blaine was looking through a window to the past: standing in front of his parents and trying to force the words “I’m gay” out of his throat; when his blood ran cold as he followed Nate’s gaze and took in the three guys who had beaten them bloody after the Sadie Hawkins dance; spending an entire night sick with nerves before finally finding the courage to tell Kurt how he felt for the first time. He knew fear, and it was written plainly all over Oliver’s face.

It made Blaine’s heart clench; Oliver deserved his honesty, if only to feel the fear and be able to understand it.

“Yeah, Twist. It’s gonna take a long time. But he _will_ get better, I promise you,” Blaine assured him. “You know that you can talk to us, and ask us questions, right?”

After a moment, Oliver nodded.

“Why’d you run away, buddy?” Blaine asked softly, and Oliver’s face crumpled fleetingly, eyes screwed tightly shut and lips pursed.

“I heard what Uncle Daniel said, about me not matching Papa. It means I’m not his, right? Like, we’re not related?” Before waiting for an answer, he barreled on, “I guess I just got scared that Papa wouldn’t want me anymore, because you guys haven’t known up ‘til now.”

“Oliver, listen to me,” Blaine said firmly, reaching out with his hand and his heart, both landing squarely on Oliver’s shoulders. “You have to know that from the second Papa and I decided that we wanted kids, there hasn’t been a single second that he didn’t want you, or didn’t love you.”

“I just really wanted to help him. I didn’t want you or Hep to do it, ‘cause like, what if something happens? It wouldn’t matter if it was me.”

_“Audrey, I need you to do something for me,” Blaine said calmly, crouching in front of her and taking her hands even as his mind whirred sickly with worry and barely-contained panic. There were only so many places that Oliver could have gone, for whatever reason, especially if he’d taken money with him. “I need you to go get dressed, and then call Julia and ask her to take you and Papa to his appointment.”_

_Audrey nodded rapidly, bangs bouncing over her forehead, and turned on her heel._

_“Blaine, I—“ Kurt began, but cut himself off as he watched Audrey bounding from the room, the resignation plain on his face._

_“I know, sweetheart,” Blaine said, bending to drop a hasty kiss to Kurt’s forehead. “I’ll bring him home, I promise.”_

_With that, Blaine sped out of the living room. It was as he was pulling on his coat and quickly wrapping his scarf too tightly around his neck that he noticed a set of keys missing from the hook—the keys to their old apartment on West 91st, at which Kurt always stayed during Fashion Week and Blaine would use whenever he was working at one of the studios in New Jersey._

_Just like that, he knew where to go._

Bile rose up in Blaine’s throat at that, and his right hand clenched around the soft stress ball he had been given to keep the blood flow steady. He swallowed, the acidic burn hot on the back of his throat.

“Oliver, of _course_ it would matter. _You_ matter, I—don’t you realize how much? You matter so much, you _help_ Papa so much, that you give him something to fight for. You give him a reason to get out of bed every morning and keep going through every day.”

“Really?” Oliver asked, his eyes wide and full of such hope that it broke Blaine’s heart.

“Really,” Blaine assured him, tensing to keep his voice steady. “And that’s so, _so_ important, Twist. Promise me that if you ever start feeling like this again, you’ll talk to us. You can’t keep things like this bottled up inside and not let us help you when you’re helping us so much.”

“Okay, Dad. I promise,” Oliver said shakily.

“God, come here,” Blaine said, holding out his arms as well as he was able. After a brief moment of indecision, Oliver seemed to give in to the instincts of his youth and clambered awkwardly onto the chair with Blaine, burying his face in his father’s shoulder and letting out a sigh to match. Blaine held him crushingly tight, blinking up at the brilliant white tiles of the ceiling until all he could see was the end of the tunnel.

* * *

**Down to the Bone, Part 4/7**  
 _Monday 14 November, 2039_

Becoming a shell of one’s former self was not a pill easily swallowed. In fact, as Kurt stood before the small mirror in his tiny bathroom, one hand braced on the sink and the other running through his hair, he could barely swallow at all around the tight knot of soul-wrenching grief lodged in his throat like a piece of dry toast. He carded his fingers across his scalp, the skin providing little resistance to each sharp tug, and with every clump of hair that came away in his dry hands, another sob tore desperately at the ulcers in his mouth as the morphine wore off.

“Kurt, where are—”

There was nowhere to hide in the bathroom, so Kurt could do nothing but stand there as Blaine rounded the doorway in an isolation gown, mask and gloves, stopping dead in his tracks at the sight before him.

Kurt had been in his fifteen-by-fifteen isolation room for two weeks. On his third night, he had finished his round of pre-treatment and began a cocktail course of ATGAM and Cytoxan, administered via a broviac that made his skin itch. The vomiting had started on morning four, bile flooding his throat as a substitute for the food he hadn’t eaten. The nurses were patient and kind, only their eyes visible behind their masks and the hoods of their rustling isolation suits.

It had felt oddly and unsettlingly like being the subject of some perverse experiment, and if Kurt let himself drift into the heady veil of pure oxygen, he had found that he could pretend, just for a few minutes, that it wasn’t happening to him, that it wasn’t his life.

Each afternoon, whilst waiting for Blaine to pick up the twins from school and come by the hospital, Kurt had sat by the plate glass window of his room and looked out onto the courtyard, just as he had done from the window of Daniel’s office on the day of his official diagnosis. Nurses would bring out groups of five or six patients at a time, taking them on a winding circuit around the small garden, letting them stop by the benches if they needed a moment to catch their breath, and as Kurt had watched, the daily blood transfusions keeping his mind clearer than it had been for months, he’d had time to think. The small television had provided the background noise he’d sorely needed in his world of silence and the steady beep of his heart monitor, and he’d thought about everything. He had thought about his phone conversations with his dad, where so much history went unspoken but still hung between the lines like a dark specter.

Often, Kurt had pictured his mother sitting in her own isolation room, the thin drapes and bed linens typical décor of the century’s first decade. He had wondered if she spent her lonely afternoons sitting by her window, the sunlight warming her skin as the world continued outside the confines of the hospital, unnoticing and heedless to her plight. For the first time in a long time, he had wept for the years with her that he had lost, and yearned to be at home where he could have climbed up to the attic, pulled out all of the drawers of the dresser that had long since lost her scent, and laid down before it on the uneven floorboards until the ache in his limbs superseded the one in his heart.

Mostly, he had thought about Blaine.

Blaine, who was his first and last love, his high school sweetheart. Blaine, who he hadn’t been able to kiss or even hold hands with, skin to skin, for two weeks. Blaine, who had offered himself up to save Kurt’s life without a second thought for himself.

Kurt had remembered the look in his eyes when Blaine turned around at the bottom of the staircase, lighting up and shining through the mask he wore. He’d retraced the steps of their shared history, the life they had built together, every shining triumph he had celebrated and each dark storm he had weathered, all of it with Blaine by his side. When he’d tried to picture what life without Blaine might have been like, he hadn’t seen himself finding another man to write songs with in Central Park, or to marry at the Lighthouse, or to talk about starting a family with on Gin Beach. He hadn’t seen himself rising, or becoming.

Kurt hadn’t seen anything. Life without Blaine had simply been unimaginable.

He had lasted until day nine before the sores in his mouth had left him unable to speak for the pain, and it had finally hit him that every cell in his body, right down to the bone, was in revolt, and that that was actually the calm before the storm. It was easily the most terrifying moment of his life, like standing on the precipice of a great cliff and knowing that he was already losing his balance, about to fall and being able to do nothing to stop it. Every night after that, sleeping fitfully and waking every hour when the nurses would come to check the infusions, Kurt had dreamt.

On Day Zero, fourteen days after he had first been admitted and two days after his treatment cycle had come to an end, Kurt woke up with clumps of hair on his pillow, and Blaine found him in the bathroom not twenty minutes later.

“Kurt, where are—”

There was nowhere to hide in the bathroom, so Kurt could do nothing but stand there as Blaine rounded the doorway in an isolation gown and mask and stopped dead in his tracks at the sight before him. It struck Kurt, as it did every day, how out of place Blaine looked in the hospital garb, like Floridian humidity in the depths of bleakest winter. It drained the colors of him, reduced him to just another cog in the wheel of the machine that had been put in place to save Kurt’s life.

As Blaine hesitantly approached, he turned back to face the pale, ghostly figure in the mirror and looked over his crooked handiwork. His hair was much thinner, and there were patches here and there where none was left at all.

“At least I don’t have to be worried about male pattern baldness, now,” he said, using the sleeve of his robe to wipe at his eyes while wincing at the flare of pain in his mouth.

Blaine stood behind him, running feather-light fingers down Kurt’s arms to entwine with his, and he wrapped both of their arms around Kurt’s waist, resting his forehead on Kurt’s shoulder and letting out a trembling sigh. “You’re still—“

“Don’t, Blaine. Not right now.”

He felt Blaine nod once, the motion fraught with tension, and let Blaine lead him from the bathroom, trying to forget the image of long strands of hair collected in the bottom of the spotless bathroom sink.

“Do you remember my first year of college, when you called me that day in April?” Kurt asked slowly as he sat on the edge of the bed, his teeth gritted to keep the movement of his mouth to an absolute minimum. Blaine crouched in front of him and raised his eyebrows a little at Kurt’s question; over the course of the separation, it had descended into one of their darkest, most desolate times, the air wearing thin and much too hard to come by. It wasn’t something they looked back on fondly, or even really at all. “It was the day that you got The Book in the mail, and you called me. We didn’t say a word for twenty minutes, and yet… It felt like the first time in six months that we were actually listening to one another.”

“Then you sang _The Scientist_ to me.”

“I did.”

“What made you think about that?” Blaine asked, after a pause.

“I’ve been thinking about a lot of things. Mom, Dad, the kids… Things I still have left to do. Cheesecake,” Kurt listed, smiling weakly. “Mostly about you, though. How much you’ve grown, how far you’ve come, and how I’ve been here to see it.”

“Kurt, don’t—“

“I’ve been thinking about that year because it… It set us up for life,” Kurt continued, locking his eyes to Blaine’s. “We managed to grow together even from so far apart, but we also learned how to survive without one another, and I—“

“Don't you dare, Kurt,” Blaine interrupted, his voice rising as he took Kurt’s hand between his own in a vice grip. “Don't you _dare._ You made a promise to me when you were seventeen years old that you’d never do this, and you can’t break that promise now just because you're scared. I’ll survive this, of _course_ I will, and so will you. You have to. You can't leave me.”

“Blaine, listen to me. Listen. You...” Kurt paused, steeling himself to give the speech he’d been rehearsing for days. “You've always done so much for me. Right from the start, you—you gave me a lifeline. From that first coffee in the student lounge back at Dalton, you were my knight. I don't think you understand how much you saved me, because I was really floundering. Managing to keep it together, but still floundering, and all it took was one word from you, seven letters, and suddenly there was light.

“You saved me then, and you're saving me now. And it's more than that, it's... Blaine, you've helped me become the man that I always wanted to be. I was always self-assured, but deep down, losing so much... There was this voice that was telling me I'd never measure up. But all I had to do was open my locker, or look at my phone, or drive a couple hours, and I'd be reminded of this beautiful boy who made me want to be better. Not just for myself, but for him, too.

“Having you in my life has always been a blessing, Blaine, always. I've taken you for granted, sometimes, but I've always felt lucky. Because who gets everything that they ever wanted? Until you, there were so many... gaps in my heart. And somehow, you bridged them all. I need you to know that it’s been an honor to have had you in my life, and if something—if something goes wrong, in two hours or in two hundred thousand, you haven't just made me happy. You've made _me.”_

Blaine crumpled, tears already staining the edge of the mask, and he pitched forward, dropped his forehead to their clasped hands, and let out a single, gut-wrenching sob. Long and silent minutes passed with Kurt’s cheek pressed to the top of Blaine’s head, wishing for and missing the familiar feeling of Blaine’s soft curls against his bare skin.

 _“Come up to meet you, tell you I’m sorry, you don’t know how lovely you are,”_ he sang in a rasping whisper, his own tears slipping free at both the pain in his mouth and the need that thrummed through his bloodless veins.

 _“I had to find you, tell you I need you, and tell you I set you apart,”_ Blaine’s reply came, muffled by both the mask and his position. All at once he reared back, dropping Kurt’s hand and standing up so quickly that it almost made Kurt’s head swim. He watched as Blaine’s eyes darted wildly about the room before coming to settle on the glove dispenser, mounted on the wall at chest height just to his left. He yanked one from the box, gaze falling back on Kurt, and the latex squeaked where he twisted it around his own gloved hands. “Let me try something.”

Slowly, Blaine pulled his mask down, and it felt like a little of the color returned to Kurt’s world. He bent to place the glove’s flat side loosely over Kurt’s mouth and moved closer, close enough for Kurt to feel the warmth of his breath, and held the glove in place with his thumbs. His fingers splayed beneath the prominent line of Kurt’s jaw, tips pressing into the dips at the nape of his neck, and Kurt let his raw eyes flutter closed at the mere touch.

Moments later, there was a warm, firm pressure against his lips through the layer of latex, Blaine’s nose against his cheek, and Kurt exhaled in relief. He could imagine the soft, smooth texture and the fullness of Blaine’s lips—he’d been doing so for two weeks, after all, and countless times before then whenever they had been separated—but it was the warmth that he had so quickly forgotten in all of his stark detachment, and it was that warmth that had him scrabbling for purchase on Blaine’s arms, his shoulders, the hollow of his neck. Fresh tears built in the corners of his eyes at the sudden and overwhelming sense of gratitude—everything fell away, like the first bite of a meal on an empty stomach, and although by anyone else’s estimation it was probably far from the perfect kiss, in that moment Blaine’s mouth upon his own was the only thing that Kurt cared about.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he whispered brokenly when Blaine pulled back, discarding the glove and quickly replacing his mask. He pressed his palm to his chest, closing his eyes and feeling his heart race as fast as a March hare. “How long until you… have to go?”

“I’ve got time,” Blaine answered, climbing up onto the bed beside Kurt, settling back against the pillows and holding out his arms. “Just let me hold you for now. We can do that.”

Kurt turned and slid his legs onto the bed, curling so that he was lying half on top of Blaine, ear to his chest and listening to the steady heartbeat there. The material of Blaine’s isolation gown rustled as Blaine wrapped his arms around him, and it was the one time that Kurt didn’t care, cocooned as he was in warmth and a feeling of love that had never been more tangible.

“I can’t wait ‘til you can eat cheesecake again,” Blaine murmured.

“I love you, too,” Kurt replied, smiling despite himself. Despite everything.

Blaine held him tighter, gloved fingers playing piano chords up and down the length of his arm, and Kurt thought back to the summer that Blaine was writing his third album, where they’d been shirtless and stretched out in the long grass of their back yard. Blaine had composed across the bare skin of Kurt’s back, kissing his freckles and picking out melodies on wavering staffs before taking a pen and filling the expanse with quavers and crotchets and treble clefs until Kurt had felt like he was made of Blaine’s music, like he was a being of Blaine’s own creation.

The vibrations of Blaine’s quiet humming lulled Kurt, let him drift and float, until it petered off into a repetition of three words, “I love you,” and Kurt closed his eyes, capturing the light and taking it with him.

_Carefully, Kurt maneuvered himself out of bed and stood. He easily removed the tubes from his broviac, having watched the nurses doing it often enough to know the method, and pulled on his robe, tying it at the waist. He wanted one last breath of fresh air before the transplant, before he would be absolutely confined to his room for the long stretch of time that the doctors were estimating as eight weeks but that Kurt was adamant would be over before Christmas._

_Not a single member of hospital staff tried to stop him as he made his way through the stark corridors and down to the ground floor, and outside the sun was shining with a welcoming, unseasonable warmth. He stepped through the doors and onto a road that was walled in on either side. When he turned around, the hospital had vanished._

_The road was impossibly long, stretching off in either direction as far as he could see. Kurt stood in place, watching the dark walls undulating and hearing them whisper to him. Looking closer, he got fleeting impressions of faces—eyes here, a mouth there—all the same, yet graduated incarnations: some youthful and at play, some lined with earned wisdom and gifted life. They ebbed like a tide in the obsidian smoke, inching gradually forward, and the motion pulled Kurt toward a horizon that was moving closer, blossoming daylight presenting a tundra unlike anything Kurt had ever seen._

_The sky overhead had the appearance of an oil painting, the clouds looking more like smudges and swirls of white and grey, and the afternoon sun beat down on him with a punishing heat. Strands of the finest silk thread fell in torrents from above, spinning and floating and twirling through the open air to land and blanket the ground in white. Spindled red arrows littered the cobblestones upon which he walked carefully, all pointing straight ahead, to where the sky darkened and dipped into a mess of ocher, fuchsia and mauve._

_It was there that Kurt found himself walking through a flowered meadow. Wind whipped up around him, buffeting his frail body as he clung to a walking stick made of bones. He needed to get to the very edge of the meadow where, just beyond the fence, there was a wide expanse of mahogany floor. The flowers around him were blood red in his peripheral vision, yet whenever he turned to look, they appeared drained of color entirely, their petals shimmering hues of white and cream. Strains and snatches of music assailed him, piano keys and guitar strings and a honeyed voice that spoke of love and remembrance and the fickle nature of time. Nutshells crunched underfoot, and he walked onward._

_Passing through the cardboard trees lining the meadow’s white picket fence, he came to it soon enough: a grand spiral staircase that stood solitary. A slim woman sat in one of the two plush chairs at the bottom, beneath a wooden archway strung with cloth and lilacs. Around them, cherry blossoms fell like snow onto the ground, melting out of sight before they could settle. Kurt approached her slowly, and when she turned to look at him, she smiled beatifically._

_“It’s not supposed to be you here, little one,” she said, but patted the chair next to her all the same, the sleeves of her white dress moving and spreading out as if underwater. “It’s too soon to be seeing you again.”_

_“Who’s supposed to be here if not me?” Kurt asked, taking the offered seat and laying down his walking stick; he had a feeling he didn’t need it any more. When she didn’t answer, he asked instead, “where do the stairs lead?”_

_“It’s not a stairway to heaven, if that’s what you’re thinking.”_

_“Always with the Zeppelin,” Kurt said fondly, taking her warm hand. “I’ve missed you so much. Can I stay a little while?”_

_“A little while means a long while here, little one. It’s time to run along upstairs, now,” she told him, pulling him back to his feet and tucking a spray of flowers through the buttonhole of his jacket; an allium for strength, a white carnation for luck, and sweet pea for goodbye. She pressed a four-leaf clover into his palm and curled his fingers over it. “Give that to Blaine when you see him. I miss our little talks.”_

_Careful of his boutonniere, Kurt wrapped his arms around her and rested his cheek on her shoulder. “When will I see you again?”_

_She laughed into the kiss she placed upon his forehead, the sound buoying him up as he stepped back. “You have a lot of time left, yet,” she said, before nodding toward the staircase, sitting back down and wagging a finger at him. “Don’t keep him waiting too long. I love you, little one.”_

_With one last look, he placed his hand on the banister and smiled. “I love you too,” he said, and started to climb._

Kurt woke up alone, lying on his back, groggy-eyed and warm from the blankets that had been pulled up to his waist. He could still feel phantom impressions of Blaine left all over him, and one of his nurses was hanging a fat bag containing a dark red substance on his IV stand. At first glance it looked like a regular bag of blood, but when he looked closer, he could see the hand-written label clearly.

 **DONOR  
** NAME: HUMMEL-ANDERSON, Blaine  
 **DOB:** 17 Oct 1994  
 **MRN:** 520 14 12  
 **ABO/Rh:** O Pos

 **RECIPIENT  
** NAME: HUMMEL-ANDERSON, Kurt  
 **DOB:** 27 May 1994  
 **MRN:** 520 65 29  
 **ABO/Rh:** A Pos

“Morning, sleepy-head,” the nurse said, pausing and looking down at him.

“Are you Lydia or Cheryl?” he asked, bracing his hands on the too-firm mattress in order to sit up a little straighter.

“I’m shocked and appalled that you can’t distinguish our dulcet tones yet,” she said, affronted, before laughing. “It’s Lydia, sweetie. Before you ask, your gorgeous husband is doing just fine. We’re actually about ready to get started here.”

Kurt swallowed and folded his hands in his lap, noticing for the first time the clear, empty tube that had been connected to his broviac.

“Ready?” Lydia asked, her gloved hand light on his trembling shoulder.

_It’s not supposed to be you here, little one._

Kurt closed his eyes, breathed in, and said, “Ready.”

* * *

**Down to the Bone, Part 5/8**

_**‘An Evening With Blaine’ Is An Evening Well-Spent**  
Elliott Murphy, Saturday 24 December 2039_

_Blaine Hummel-Anderson has long been a staple of the entertainment industry, starting out as a fresh-faced college graduate with a story to tell through his music. Over twenty years since being discovered by Interscope Records, his career highlights include three triple-platinum albums, sell-out world tours, a brief stint on Broadway, numerous acting and presenting jobs, and even a book._

_Clearly still one of our most beloved personalities, his one-off Zone V show ‘An Evening With Blaine’ promised to be nothing short of spectacular: a two-hour special, broadcast live from Times Square Studios in front of a star-studded audience._

_And Blaine didn’t disappoint. His manner was as easy, charming, and affable as ever, and his rapport with the audience second to none. For the first hour he focused on brand new arrangements for the best of his catalog, taking us back over two decades to the days of ‘Iconic’, ‘The In Crowd’, and the unforgettable ‘The Knight And The Oak Tree’—his first number one hit. It was after that, however, that the evening really kicked up a notch. Personal highlights for me included his take on The Kinks’ You Really Got Me, immediately juxtaposed against the soft and haunting melodies of what is undoubtedly this year’s biggest smash hit, Sara Vermosa’s Lullaby._

_It was with the final two songs, however, that I think we saw the true Blaine as he is today. Even if he had not prefaced them with a short and heartfelt introduction, it would have been obvious for whom the songs were being sung only from the lyrics, and the raw passion and emotion with which they were performed is something that shook me to my core. In Kurt and Blaine Hummel-Anderson, the power couple of all power couples, I believe that we are looking at that transcendent kind of love that nowadays seems so very rare, and it is never more clear than when Blaine is singing for his husband._

_‘An Evening With Blaine’ is available to stream via the Zone V website until January 31st. On behalf of everyone here at LightNews.Com, I wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year._

*

_Friday 23 December, 2039_

_For Blaine, the waiting had always been the hardest part._

_Waiting to fully come around from the general anesthetic; waiting for Kurt’s reactions to the transfusion subside; waiting to hold his children again; waiting for the cells to take and engraftment to occur. Waiting, waiting, waiting, and Blaine could do nothing else, nothing more._

_Two weeks after the transplant, when Daniel told Blaine that Kurt’s vomiting, cramps, and the rash all over his skin were symptoms of graft-versus-host disease, his heart sank. They had known since well before the transplant that the chances of Kurt having no reaction to Blaine’s donated cells were around twenty percent, but he had still hoped against hope. After all, what were the chances that getting stopped at the bottom of a staircase by a lost and beautiful boy, one unextraordinary November afternoon, would have been the first moment of the rest of his life?_

The orchestra members were patient under the cover of darkness for their cue; the first verse was just Blaine and the piano. His final two songs of the night were arrangements he had created himself, working tirelessly for weeks in the privacy of his sound-proofed home studio, singing until his throat was hoarse and his back ached from sitting on his piano bench for far too long.

The audience grew quiet as he seated himself at the piano, settled the microphone into the holder that reached across the keyboard, and flexed his fingers. He could feel every camera trained on him, the soft blue spotlight for which he'd asked gradually growing brighter and casting everything in a watery glow.

“Most of you know that my husband, Kurt, is in the hospital right now,” Blaine began, fingers striking the first chords of _[Letters From The Sky](http://borogroves.tumblr.com/post/32452139486)_. “These last two songs are for him. You’ve been a fantastic audience, and I’ve been Blaine Hummel-Anderson. Thank you, and goodnight.”

_An hour before he was due on stage, Blaine sighed heavily as he sat alone in Green Room One. Waiting, waiting, waiting. They were ahead of schedule, and the members of the orchestra had gone to the second green room, where craft services had set out snacks and drinks for the production crew. Sound check had, at first, been an unmitigated disaster, and they all needed to wind down before the show. Blaine always spent at least thirty minutes alone prior to a performance, settling his nerves and limbering up, but he hadn’t performed since before the beginning of the summer; he needed the extra time._

_It had been months before Kurt’s diagnosis—even before Kurt had started complaining that he was feeling more tired than usual—that he had committed to the live show, having no reason to doubt that everything would be as it always was: always that little bit too rushed, always that little bit too tired, but somehow all the more perfect, all the more real, for those aspects._

_Once Blaine committed to something, he didn’t back out, not even when things were almost falling apart and it was all he could do to keep his head above water._

“One of these days the sky’s gonna break and everything will escape, and I’ll know. One of these days the mountains are gonna fall into the sea, and they’ll know that you and I were made for this, I was made to taste your kiss, we were made to never fall away,” he sang, voice tapering almost off into silence, before he took a deep breath to finish the verse. “Never fall away.”

The lights came up at the same moment as the drums and guitar kicked in, and despite the melancholic nature of the song, Blaine felt himself buoyed up on the cresting wave of music. In the short interlude between verses, he realized that it was what he needed: performances had always been his truest and most honest way of communicating. The spoken words over which his throat closed and his mouth refused to utter somehow came easily when put into measures and melodies. Everything was precise, and timed to result in the best possible sound.

“One of these days letters are gonna fall from the sky telling us all to go free, but until that day I’ll find a way to let everybody know that you’re coming back, mmm, you’re coming back for me. ‘Cause even though you left me here, I have nothing left to fear; these are only walls that hold me here.”

_Absent-mindedly, he scrolled through his iPod, settling on Vivaldi’s Four Seasons to soothe his nerves. He had plenty of time, after all. It was as he was putting in his ear buds that his phone rang, and he sighed again at the intrusion. When he saw the display reading Burt – Cell, however, his mood brightened._

_“Hey, Burt,” he answered, clicking off his iPod and switching to shoulder technique as he wound up his ear buds._

_“Hey, kiddo. Just wanted to call and tell you to break a leg before the big show,” Burt said, and Blaine settled back onto the couch, already feeling more at ease. “Is Kurt watching tonight? I just called him but he fell asleep about two minutes in.”_

_“No, I think he’ll probably miss it,” Blaine replied. “But he can catch it some other time.”_

Easily vocalizing over the instrumental interlude, he glanced out at the audience and as one of the cameras swung around to focus on him, he let his eyes slip closed. He had been playing the part of the venerated entertainer, one of America’s sweethearts, all night—he’d hammed it up for the nation long enough. With his closing songs, he was singing for no one but Kurt.

He hummed into the song’s grand finale, his keystrokes becoming heavier, and it was with sweat beading at his temples and his voice tearing from his throat that he leapt to his feet as the drums kicked back in with shattering force.

“’Cause we won’t have to be scared,” he belted, the note soaring upscale as the strings and guitars brought the song to its crescendo. “You’re coming back for me, you’re coming back for me, you’re coming back for me, you’re coming back for me…”

Each and every time he had rehearsed the song—at home, in the studio, during sound check—the last repeating lyric had always seemed, to him, like something he was trying to convince himself to believe. If he sang it enough times, with enough emotion, exactly the right pitch and intonation, it would become an inescapable truth. His passion and belief would spark and kindle a reaction in the universe that would be fanned into a wildfire strong enough to sweep away every last terrible thing in his world and bring Kurt back to him— _his_ Kurt, not the shell that his illness had made of him. Since his conversation with Burt, however, that passion and belief had metamorphosed into something he could feel: a quickening of his heart, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, a reason to feel bright for the first time in months. The words were taking on a different handle even as he was singing them. Kurt was coming back for Blaine, for Audrey and Oliver, for the life that had been put on hold. He was getting better every single day, and while the road ahead was still long, the worst was over. It was time to start smiling again, start _hoping_ again.

_“You singin’ for him tonight?” Burt asked._

_“The last two songs,” he said, adding after a pause, “and every other song. It’s always for him.”_

_“Even the weird one that goes on forever?” Burt asked, and Blaine knew he was teasing—he’d sneaked enough glances at the play count on Burt’s media player to know that it was one of his favorites._

_“Storm House,” Blaine supplied. “Yep, even that one.”_

By the end of the song, Blaine had reseated himself and was almost whispering into the mic, playing the final notes with trembling fingers and wishing more than ever that Kurt was watching live. Kurt knew the song; he was the one who had introduced Blaine to the band when Mercedes had made him watch _Harper’s Island_. It had had such a different meaning, then—Blaine always smiling over the first verse at the thought of tasting Kurt’s kisses again, even if it had only been an hour since the last time he had done so—but when he had stumbled across it the same afternoon that Jason had called in a panic that Blaine hadn’t yet locked in his set list for the show, he couldn’t help but identify the undercurrent of deeper meaning held within the lyrics.

It wasn’t just that, though. Kurt had always had that uncanny, unfathomable ability to see through to the real Blaine, pick up on every single inflection of every last note he sang and figure out what was really behind abstract lyrics and a showman’s exterior. He would know, without question, that Blaine’s smiling façade was finally taking on elements of truth.

Without further ado, Blaine nodded to the orchestra conductor that he was ready to perform his closing number, _[Rivers](http://borogroves.tumblr.com/post/28196264485),_ and his two back-up singers readied themselves at their mic stands. The lights dropped, leaving only a single spotlight trained upon him. After a brief pause, he began the elaborate piano introduction he had composed from the melody of the song, and the string section behind him layered their own harmony beneath, each member gradually lit with their own faint lights.

_“So how’re you doing, kiddo? And I want the truth, not any of that ‘I’m fine’ crap,” Burt said firmly, and Blaine let his fingertips whisper across the skin of his face, exercising restraint in order to try and keep Zara’s handiwork as smudge-free as possible._

_“Well, Kurt’s doing better. Daniel said he’d be out of the BMT unit any day now, so—“_

_“Blaine,” Burt interjected. “I know how my son’s doing. What about my son-in-law?”_

_“I’m…” Blaine trailed off, suddenly unsure of how to respond. He sat up and cast his eyes about the room, taking in the chairs, tables, and soothing green walls that, thankfully, didn’t remind him a single bit of the sickly green linoleum that lined the floors of the University Hospital in Brooklyn. It was a balm. “Honestly, I haven’t stopped to think. It’s wake up, get the kids to school, go to the hospital, watch Kurt sleep for hours on end, be there when he wakes up, go get the kids, bring them to the hospital, take them home, make dinner, watch TV, music, then bed.”_

_“So you’re keeping busy. Sounds like something Kurt would do."_

“When these rivers run dry, don’t cry. Don’t cry; I’ll be thirsty too. When things ain’t right, don’t sigh. Don’t sigh; we always get through. When the money runs tight, it’s alright. Alright; I’m rich in love for you.”

When the drumming began and the entire stage burst into blue and white lights that flashed in Blaine’s periphery and flowed like water over the ivory-white piano keys, the song swallowed him whole, and he let it. It represented the latest in a lifelong line of love songs to his boyfriend, partner, husband, soul mate, and he knew that neither his voice nor the emotion behind it had ever been stronger.

His conversation with Burt had freed something he had been keeping chained up—something he’d regarded as feral, wild, unpredictable—and yet, instead of feeling like it was eating its way out, he felt the continuing flutters of hope beating inside of him, taking flight and lifting him until he was performing with a reignited passion that fueled and spurred him through the rest of the song. He had opened a Pandora’s Box, and rather than being consumed, he took the tiny butterfly of burgeoning hope and nurtured it with thoughts of his sweetheart, his family, their future.

“When I was young, we used to run, we used to laugh, we used to smile, we used to run wild. Rivers run dry, the air runs tight, things change, we keep on chuggin’, man,” he sang, the back-up singers harmonizing in both higher and lower registers so that Blaine’s own voice was caught between them.

_“It is what it is.”_

_“And what it is is terrible,” Burt said succinctly, and Blaine found himself nodding along. “Kid, whatever you’re feeling that you’ve got buried deep down, it’s okay to let it out. You’re not a robot and no one’s expecting you to always have it together. God knows I didn’t when Kurt’s mom was in the hospital.”_

_Blaine felt it: the way he’d been walking half a step out of sync with the rest of the world; the chills rolling beneath the surface of his skin that no amount of layers would dispel; waking up to the sensation of falling, falling, falling each and every night. His life, essentially, was on pause in the middle of a routine that he’d developed in order to exist as a functioning human being. He ate and didn’t taste a thing; he could barely swallow. He dressed himself on autopilot, matching together shirts and pants that he knew Kurt liked together but might not even have bothered with otherwise. All of the energy he had left at the end of the day—and the dregs that he managed to dredge up from reserves he didn’t even know he possessed—went to making sure that the twins were content, and safe, and not falling apart inside over and over every day, like he was._

_He felt all of it; he just didn’t want to acknowledge it. Acknowledging it meant that it was there, that he didn’t have it all together, that he was ready to crumble if only someone would push the right buttons._

_And yet._

If the show hadn’t been airing live, Blaine might have asked the orchestra to indulge him and play _Feeling Good,_ just for the hell of it. Instead, he once again jumped to his feet, bouncing on his heels as he played and sang with more fervor and conviction than he’d have thought himself capable. The song was drawing to its close, and rather than fade with it, he simply let go of everything except the first threads of happiness dancing within his grasping reach.

When the final strains of the song were swallowed by the announcer—“Ladies and gentlemen, give it up one more time for Blaine Hummel-Anderson!”—the audience applauded and cheered, and he thanked them profusely. Tears stung at his eyes as he waved and took his bow, before feeling as if he were floating offstage, everything in slow motion. It was being back in his secret place, the expanse of his mind that only existed when he was riding the adrenaline-junkie high of closing a successful show, and oh, how he had missed it.

He passed into the wings, where the stage manager clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder, his manager grinned widely and handed Blaine his phone, and one of the runners passed him a towel. As he scrolled through the numerous messages he had received throughout the course of the show—it looked like more than one person had live-texted their reactions—it buzzed to life in his hand, and he felt himself light up when he saw _Mount Sinai_ flash up on the screen.

_“How—“ Blaine began, stopping to clear his throat when his voice cracked, the word sounding like a splinter. Reaching out had never been a particular forte of his. “How did you get through it?”_

_“Lizzy made me talk about it. Never wanted to; that’s not what us guys did, you know? We shut our mouths and just got on with it. But she talked to me about it. She even had her awful sister come over a few times to make sure we were doin’ okay.”_

_“Julia’s over a lot,” Blaine said dully. “She’s always checking in with the kids in case they need anything. We get a lot of pies.”_

_“So let me ask you again, kiddo. What about you? You got anybody you can talk to about this stuff?”_

_“I—It just feels selfish, somehow.”_

_“Of course it does. You’re not the one in the hospital. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t affect you, too,” Burt said, letting out a sigh that crackled into static. He still held the receiver too close to his mouth; it was comforting to know that some things never changed. “Don’t let this one crappy thing make a martyr out of you, Blaine. You forget that I saw what you were like with the kids when they were knee-high to a grasshopper. It’s almost like you think you don’t exist unless you’re helpin’ somebody else.”_

_“Well, I…”_

“Blaine, I can come home. Right now, if I want to,” Kurt told him, cutting straight to the point. “And I really, really want to. Tell me you can come pick me up. Tell me we get to have Christmas without masks and gowns and I can actually hold all of you, really hold all of you.”

“Sweetheart, you—you’re coming home?” Blaine asked disbelievingly, the hand holding the towel poised in mid-air as he stopped dead to take in the weight of Kurt’s words.

“I’m coming home.”

“I’ll be right there,” Blaine said, not giving it a moment’s thought. “There’s no press, and the after-party is mainly crew. Give me thirty minutes.”

“Blaine, wait. First, just… Tell me how the show went. Tell me how you are,” Kurt said, and the words felt like a cold compress just before the breaking of a fever.

“Thirsty,” Blaine answered after a moment, gratefully taking a bottle of water from the same runner who had provided the towel.

“So… I’ll be thirsty, too.”

“Sweetheart, if you’re thirsty then you should—oh. You saw the show?”

“I saw the show,” Kurt affirmed, and Blaine’s grin only split wider. “I’m exhausted and I’ll probably fall asleep while you’re on your way but I just—I had to tell you that I saw it, and I’m so proud of you, and I love you so much, and I am so, so happy right now. Things are finally looking up.”

_Blaine’s mouth and jaw worked a few times before he lapsed into silence. What could he say to that? There was more than an element of truth to Burt’s words—he lived to help people. It was what he was good at. Being the caretaker, listening, providing a shoulder to cry on and a hand to hold. But what about when he needed his own hand to be held?_

_“Guess you never thought about it like that, huh?”_

_“Can’t say that I did,” Blaine replied tightly, blinking up at the ceiling. “Ouch, by the way.”_

_“Ah, truth’s a bitch sometimes. What about the kids, how are they doin’?”_

_Blaine let out a low chuckle, thankful for the switch to a safer subject. “Twist’s been hell-bent on becoming a doctor since coming to the hospital with me that first time, so he’s always got his head buried in books nowadays. Hep’s been spending a lot of time with Kurt, though. They have about an hour together every afternoon, just talking on their own while Twist bugs the nurses and I try to keep him under control.”_

_“And Audrey’s okay? She’s happy enough?”_

_“Yeah, she is. I mean, as happy as she can be.”_

He changed into a fresh pair of jeans and polo, complete with a signature Westwood & Hummel bowtie for good measure, and stopped at Eden Flowers’ Madison Avenue branch on his way to the hospital—it was the only florist he’d found that was open twenty-four hours. Each time he stepped through the doors, he thought back to the first time he’d stepped inside to be greeted by Maya, the sleepy-eyed twenty-year-old who often worked the graveyard shift. It had been one of his bad days, and it had slipped his mind entirely that with Kurt being in the BMT unit, he wasn’t allowed fresh flowers.

“The tiger lilies are always a good choice,” she’d told him when she caught him eyeing a bunch.

“My husband, he—he likes tiger lilies when he’s sick,” he had told her, needing Kurt to be something more to someone. More than facts and figures, more than a bed number, more than a name on a whiteboard. “Roses on anniversaries, tulips for birthdays, daisies when he's sad, peonies when we're celebrating something. But always tiger lilies when he's sick.”

He had remembered the unit rules just as he was rounding the corner of the nurses’ station, and the bouquet had brightened Lydia’s day instead.

When he stepped inside Eden Flowers that night, he lingered only a moment by the bright displays of tiger lilies, shaking his head and smiling to himself as he moved onto the peonies. It was a night worth celebrating, after all.

_“Sounds like you need to take advice from my granddaughter, then,” Burt said firmly, leaving no room for argument. “Kid, just… I’ve been worried about you lately. Carole and I both have. You need to talk about this stuff before it eats you up and makes you something you never were. Or find something that’ll let you escape for a bit, and keep you sane.”_

_“Is that what you did?”_

_Burt laughed at that, a guffaw that was colored with memory and wistful nostalgia. “Lizzy talked me into buying this beat-up old Camaro and spending the weekends working on it. Come to think of it, that was Kurt’s first oil change. He was muttering for hours afterward about getting grease all over his hands—“_

_“But really he loved it,” Blaine interjected, eliciting another hearty laugh from Burt. “Okay, Burt. I hear you. And—“_

_Before he could say more, the door opened and Zara strode in. She took one, sweeping look at Blaine and silently shook her head, hands on hips._

_“And you’re right,” Blaine said, holding up a finger to Zara with an apologetic glance. “But judging by the look my stylist is giving me, it seems I’ve managed to mess up my entire appearance in the last fifteen minutes, so I’d better get going.”_

It was as he was leaning over the flowers, looking for the perfect arrangement of bright colors, that his phone rang. Buoyed up by the residual rush of both the show and knowing that Kurt had been watching, he grinned as he pulled it from his pocket, winking at Maya where she stood behind the counter, watching him with a bright expression when she noticed that he wasn’t standing by the tiger lilies.

The display read _Burt and Carole – Home,_ and he grinned even wider as he accepted the call and lifted the phone to his ear.

“Blaine?”

“Finn?” Blaine asked, taking the phone away from his ear just long enough to glance at the screen and confirm that his eyes hadn’t been playing tricks on him. “You’re at Burt and Carole’s?”

“Yeah, I’m—Blaine, something’s happened.”

_“Alright, kid. Just think about what I said,” Burt instructed firmly. “You still okay to pick us up at the airport tomorrow?”_

_“Yep, I’ve got your flight info on the fridge,” Blaine said. “Kurt’s so excited to see you. He’s determined to be home soon, and the doctors aren’t disagreeing with him anymore. It’s gonna be a good Christmas.”_

_“We sure could use one. Now go kick some ass,” Burt said, and Blaine grinned. Retirement and advancing years hadn’t done a thing to quell the flame that Burt had always carried. “Love you like a son.”_

_“Love you like a dad. Bye, Burt.”_

* * *

**Down to the Bone, Part 6/7**  
Enhance your reading experience by listening to my [writing music](http://borogroves.tumblr.com/post/34246881573) while reading.

_Wednesday 22 February, 2040_

_“—not supposed to be you here—“_

Gently, Kurt lowered himself down onto the edge of the dock and sat with his legs hanging over the edge. He tugged down the front of his soft, fur-lined trapper hat and readjusted the standing collar of his thick coat, trying to cover as much bare skin as possible. There was little breeze to speak of, and the water was all but still in the hushed hour just after dawn. It was quiet, peaceful, and free from the chaos that had roiled in his mind since the night before Christmas Eve, when Blaine had arrived at the hospital wearing a shell-shocked expression, carrying a bunch of daisies. The memory was too sharp, too crisp, and no matter how much time Kurt had spent sleeping, or trying to occupy his waking hours with making sure that the twins weren’t following him down his well of despair, it still hung in his mind’s eye like a specter, haunting his every step.

Breath puffing out before him, Kurt buried his hands in his pockets and slowly closed his eyes, attempting to rid his mind of every last scrap of thought. He and Burt had visited Grand Lake in St Mary’s almost every weekend for months after his mom had died, and they would always wind up choosing the same dock upon which to sit—the lonely dock, they had called it, for they never saw a boat tied off there. It had been a curious thing at the time, the wood of the dock looking brand new, with hardly a mark upon it, and almost three decades later, it looked mostly the same but for some weathering.

Sitting there, alone with nothing but the dock as his anchor, it was something simple to imagine that the last two months had been a hellish dream from which he had finally awoken. To imagine that if he were to lie down on the morning-damp wood with just his feet dangling off the end, staring up into the lightness of the sky and remaining silent, soon Burt would be shoving a fishing rod into his hands and excitedly telling him to reel in whatever had taken the bait.

All the imagination in the world, however, didn’t change the facts.

_“—tell you this, but… Kurt, sweetheart, I—it’s your dad, he—“_

Blaine had stammered, and cried, and told some nonsense story about Burt having a stroke and dying in his sleep, and held Kurt’s hand so tightly that it hurt, but none of it had registered. Since that day, everything had seemed muted somehow. The burst of color that had ignited Kurt’s world when the doctors had told him he could go home for Christmas had been drained just as quickly.

It had just been so sudden, coming out of nowhere seemingly just for the sake of blindsiding them all, that he couldn’t make sense of it. His father was dead? No. Absolutely not. Kurt could have picked up the phone and had a conversation with him, grinning triumphantly that he’d proved them all wrong.

Every time he had picked up his phone to dial, though, his thumb would hover above the picture of Burt—still wearing the same plaid button-down, trucker cap, and crinkly-eyed smile as ever—until the screen dimmed and finally went black.

A sudden and sharp breeze whipped up around him, rippling across the water, and Kurt drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them and letting his chin drop. He hadn’t felt so small, or so young, in a very long time.

_“—chartered a plane to get us home, and there’s a nurse coming with us—“_

Blaine was trying. Really, he was. He had spent two months trying to make up for the fact that he was the last person, other than Carole, to have spoken to Burt. Two months trying to keep Kurt occupied so that he didn’t think about not being able to go back to Ohio for longer than a week, all because of the disease that kept him barely leaving the house.

After being married for almost twenty-one years—and together for twenty-nine—Kurt knew when his husband was concerned. He was well-versed in reading Blaine’s expressions and body language. He would cross his arms over his chest and knit his eyebrows together when he thought that Kurt was working himself too hard. His fingers would be splayed, eyes wide and open when Kurt would relay bad news out of the blue. His head would hang and his shoulders would slump when he was at his most worried, as he had been for almost the entirety of the previous six months.

The only other time Kurt had seen Blaine standing with his posture ramrod straight, hands curled into loose fists against his sides and gaze raised slightly upward, was at the funeral of William Anderson. And Kurt didn’t want to think about that at all—particularly not the way that Blaine’s eyes rested on him rather than some upward point of focus in the middle distance.

Kurt was fine; didn’t Blaine understand that? People were born, and people died. Life went on.

Except for when it didn’t.

But, ultimately, it had to—if not for Kurt’s sake, then at least for the sake of his family.

_“—Carole is just beside herself, but Finn’s there right now—“_

Somehow, in his daze of disbelief and almost complete denial, Kurt had made it through the hastily pulled-together funeral—held two days after Christmas, for heaven’s sake—and the reluctant journey home for New Year’s. He had slept through the ball dropping and most of the following day, finally waking up at around five p.m. to a place that felt so much more like a house than a home. All of the light and airy color schemes he’d taken great pains to slave over suddenly reminded him too much of hospitals, of where he had been when the deepest and darkest fears he carried, locked away in his subconscious, had been dragged out into the stark and sterile surroundings.

Upon waking, he hadn’t been able to hear music playing softly while the twins did their homework, like any regular Sunday; instead the house had been silent, and Oliver and Audrey had both been beneath the covers either side of him, each of them holding one of his hands. When Kurt had glanced over the top of Oliver’s dark curls, it was to see Blaine stretched out on the chaise below the window, covered in a thick blanket and lashes fanned over the dark circles beneath his eyes.

The worrisome sense of desolate togetherness had dragged Kurt into getting out of bed as quietly and carefully as possible, pulling on the first clean Henley and pair of yoga pants he’d found in the closet, and padding silently downstairs to make a start on dinner with grief weighing heavily in his bones.

_“—had to go back to the house and pack a bag for you, and the kids are down in the car—“_

The house had remained in a bubble of hush until the twins had gone back to school, brightening up for having something to do with their time. And all at once, life was going on much as it had been before Kurt had gone into hospital. He spent his mornings on the couch consuming fashion magazine after fashion magazine in an effort to get his head back in the game for when he eventually returned to work. He ate the lunch that Blaine had prepared before leaving to go to the studio, and his afternoons were given to pacing the back yard in order to build his strength back up. Blaine would leave work early to pick up the twins and bring them home, and Kurt would while away hours talking to them, asking them questions about everything he could think of.

When they were talking, he could focus his energies on concentrating, taking in what they were saying. It took up the last of his strength for the day, particularly if he’d pushed himself to his limits in the yard, and he would often find himself being shaken gently awake by Blaine in the evenings. Some nights he would make it up the stairs, and some nights Blaine would carry him as Kurt dozed with his forehead pressed to the skin of Blaine’s neck. Every single night, he curled into the fetal position, his back cold until Blaine slipped one arm beneath Kurt’s neck and the other around his waist.

He didn’t think about Burt. He didn’t talk about Burt. He had created something new, something functional, that didn’t involve needing to feel much of anything. It was a routine, and it was safe.

_“—been over a month, Kurt, don’t you think we should talk about—“_

The moment that Kurt felt everything crash down around his ears was on the morning of the memorial service. Burt had had to be buried, of course, but Carole had waited to hold a memorial until their friends, the majority of whom had all booked the same six-week cruise for the holidays, could make it back to Ohio. As a result, the memorial was almost two months to the day after Burt’s death.

He awoke from a particularly vivid dream at five-thirty a.m. in his old room, tangled beneath the covers and shivering against Blaine’s skin. Breathing deeply, he waited for his mind to begin whitewashing over the images of bicycle spokes, thick fingers holding a teacup, approving smiles, and grease-stained coveralls.

Blaine was already awake, soothingly trailing fingers back and forth along the arm that Kurt had clutched around his waist, and shifted to rest his cheek on top of Kurt’s head. His morning stubble had scratched at the sensitive skin of Kurt’s scalp where the hair was only just showing the first signs of growing back, and Kurt had shifted down just a little bit, his paranoia about disturbing its growth an ever-present gnawing in the back of his mind.

In the end, all it took to finally make Kurt crumble was seven words; a variation on the same question he had heard multiple times on a daily basis for months.

“Sweetheart, are you sure you’ll be okay?”

_“—wish you would stop treating me like I’m made of glass, I’m not going to break—“_

Getting out of bed, pulling on clothes and silently slipping down the stairs was still a blur over an hour later, and Kurt chewed at the inside of his mouth as he listened to the water lap beneath the dock. He had marched through the house, directionless, until ending up in the kitchen. Resting his forehead against the chilled steel of the refrigerator door, he took pause to breathe in the scents of the house that used to be his. So many nights spent sitting at the table with his dad, each talking about their own interests and the other trying to keep up. There were ghosts everywhere, their cold presences converging over him like a tidal wave and threatening to pull him under, never to resurface.

He needed air, and while the breeze grew stronger, he thumbed over the car keys in his pocket and let his eyes droop. He had time yet to find some measure of peace before it became imperative to go back, tail between his legs, and put up another façade that would smile wanly and accept the requisite sympathies given to him as any well-adjusted person would.

Gradually, he let his knees drop and instead crossed his legs beneath himself, elbows resting on the insides of his thighs as he inhaled the clean scent of the air. The lake was calm, his surroundings serene. There was silence, save for the footsteps moving closer along the dock. Kurt wasn’t surprised—of course Blaine would have followed him.

“Blaine, I just need some time. Please.”

_“—really scaring me, Julia. I know; you’re right. But he’s just so… There’s no light in his eyes anymore—“_

“Not Blaine, actually,” a voice replied, and when Kurt turned to find out who his unwelcome companion was, it was the last person he would have ever expected to see. The last person he would have ever wanted to see. Someone he could happily have gone the rest of his life without running into, let alone on the morning of his last goodbye to his father.

“Sebastian?”

The name came out in a breathless, disbelieving rush as Kurt took in his rumpled clothes, the wide-framed glasses covering tired eyes, and the messy, backwards sweep of hair that was still a similar style. His shoulders were drawn up tight beneath his thick gray sweater, the fingers of one hand tucked into the pocket of worn-looking jeans, the other clutching a large travel mug like it held the meaning of life. Kurt couldn’t decide whether the lines around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes were from laughing too much or frowning too much, yet judging by his small and reluctant smirk, Kurt guessed the latter. Sebastian Smythe had barely aged a day, yet something about him spoke of living a lifetime too long.

“You’re still in Ohio?” Kurt asked.

Sebastian shook his head, flicking his eyes out over the water. “No. Just home from home.”

_“—doesn’t even look like himself these days—“_

“How did you know it was me?”

“I don’t know anyone else who holds their chin up quite that high. Other than me, of course,” Sebastian said smoothly, though his grin turned to a squint as the sun briefly broke through the thick blanket of cloud overhead. “I wasn’t entirely sure until you mentioned Blaine, though.”

Kurt hummed noncommittally, returning his attention to the lake and hoping that Sebastian would take the hint. No matter how many years had passed since high school, and no matter how many old grudges had been laid to rest, Sebastian’s presence felt like an intrusion into a sacred space.

“I’d really like to be alone,” he said after a few moments, inclining his head. “So, if you don’t mind…”

“Actually, I do. This is kind of my dock.”

“I don’t see your name on it,” Kurt said petulantly, a bite of anger nipping at his insides when Sebastian moved closer. He crouched down at the very end and gestured for Kurt to take a look. “If you push me in, Sebastian Smythe, I swear to god—“

“Kurt, just look.”

_“—Daddy, Papa’s not moving. He’s just sitting there again. Should I—“_

Swinging his legs out of the way, Kurt thought better of leaning over and instead lay down along the wood to peer over at the end. Sure enough, engraved into the side of the thick wood, was the legend ‘SMYTHE’. Kurt sighed heavily as he pushed himself up and got to his feet, brushing off the front of his coat and pants.

“Fine, you win. I’m leaving,” he spat. 

“Kurt, wait. I…” Sebastian trailed off, making an aborted motion as if to reach out to him. He glanced down at the travel mug in his hand, and held it up. “Coffee? You look like you could use it.”

“It’s not like you’ve never looked better,” Kurt scoffed, settling his hands on his hips. “I’ve got no blood; what’s your excuse?”

“Do you want the damn coffee or not?”

“Thank you,” Kurt said, reluctantly taking the mug and musing that it would probably be nice if both halves of his brain were awake for whatever was about to transpire. He paused with the mug raised to his mouth, steam curling wetly beneath his nose. “There isn’t booze in this, is there?”

“I haven’t done that in years,” Sebastian replied, his tone light yet wistful. “How’d you even know about that?”

“Blaine,” he answered simply, finally taking a sip and reveling as the taste washed over his tongue.

“Right. Of course. You guys were Paul and Joanne even back in high school,” Sebastian murmured, shifting so that his forearm rested on his raised knee, and he pushed his glasses higher up his nose with his free hand as he stared out at the lake. “And how _is_ Captain Bowtie these days?”

_“—to defend you, even if I know you’re wrong—“_

“He still has both eyes intact,” Kurt snapped, the urge to jump to his husband’s defense always an immediate, bristling rush as soon as anyone said something that could even be remotely construed as unnecessarily harsh or critical. He closed his eyes, suddenly remembering the man sitting at the end of the dock as nothing more than a confused, sad, guilty boy trying to right a wrong, and moved to take a seat in the small space next to him. “Sorry. I’m… Sorry.”

Silence, though nothing of the comfortable quiet he was used to with Blaine, overtook them. Kurt gratefully drank down the coffee by the mouthful—it was a good blend, rich and aromatic, and Sebastian had added just enough sugar to smooth the bitter edge—until the tension became unbearable and he set the mug down next to Sebastian. “I’d love to hear the story behind this dock,” Kurt murmured, trying to put off the inevitable ‘what are you doing back in Ohio’ conversation. “Why is there never a boat here?”

“Because there isn’t a boat to put here,” Sebastian said succinctly, clasping his hands and lacing his fingers together. Kurt noted, with no small measure of surprise, the slim gold band on his ring finger. Sebastian shrugged, and added matter-of-factly, “there would have been, but then Mom left.”

“Oh. So it was just you and your dad?”

“Pretty much. Belle—Annabelle, my sister—she’d already set up house with her husband, so it was just us. Actually, most of the time it was just me, with my dad’s work keeping him busy.”

“Is that why you were always such an asshole?” The words slipped from Kurt’s mouth before he could stop them, and while he wasn’t feeling particularly accommodating, he hadn’t intended for the question to be such a barb.

Sebastian regarded him coolly for a long moment, and then his lips began to twitch and he was taken over by a laugh that made Kurt relax, not even having realized he had been coiled like a spring. “You know, it’s actually refreshing for someone to put it like that instead of—well. It’s good to be called on your bullshit once in a while. My hus—“

He cleared his throat, turned his wedding band around on his finger in a way that seemed subconscious, and offered Kurt a tight smile. “So, what are you doing back in Ohio? Shouldn’t you be in Milan for Fashion Week?”

_“—maybe being back at work will do him good. It’s just so—“_

Kurt winced, and rubbed at his chest where his central line still rested, unconnected yet a constant reminder of all he had to look forward to upon his return to New York. He was still having weekly blood transfusions, seemingly without an end in sight. He had come through the bone marrow transplant, the graft-versus-host disease, and yet he seemed no better than before, though his constant fatigue had lessened somewhat. Mentions of the job he had been forced to leave stagnating in one of the world’s most frenetically paced industries made him itch for it to already be March, so that he could get back to the office, sit at his upcycled airplane-wing desk, get in front of his light box and start creating things again.

“There’s a memorial service today for my dad,” he said, wanting to wince again at how lifeless his own voice sounded. Sebastian’s head jerked sharply towards him, and he wore an expression that was both surprised and sad. Kurt didn’t want pity from anyone, least of all Sebastian Smythe, so he quickly changed the subject and nodded towards Sebastian’s left hand. “How long have you been married?”

Sebastian blinked down at his ring, as if remembering all at once that it was even there. He swallowed. “Four and a half years.”

“What’s his name? What’s he like?” Kurt asked, immediately intrigued by the man who had been able to get Sebastian Smythe—someone who had proclaimed to meet the man of his dreams and break up with him in the space of twenty minutes—to settle down.

“Matthew. I called him Matt, because he hated it. But he called me Seb, and I couldn’t stand that, either,” he said, the note of fondness in his voice undercut by something heavier, sadder. It didn’t escape Kurt’s notice that Sebastian was speaking in past tense. “He was a vet. We, uh. I was living in Chicago and we met at a bar—he was there on vacation. He, um—he changed my life. We fucked for a week almost non-stop and then the next thing I knew, I was moving to New York to be with him.”

“The sex was that good?” Kurt joked, trying to ease some of the dark tension that had settled.

“Incredible,” Sebastian said, with a conspiratorial glance. “He was an asshole, but he had the biggest heart. Best man I’ve ever known.”

_“—the best man I’ve ever known. I’m so lucky to be here today—“_

“Sebastian, I don’t mean to pry, but… Are you two not together anymore?”

“He died.”

At that word, Kurt’s stomach lurched and bile burned at the back of his throat. All he could think of was Blaine. He had lost his father, yes, but for all that it had come out of the blue, he had known it to be on the cards someday. The prospect of losing the love of his life was hell beyond imagining, and in that moment, he realized that all of the whispered conversations he’d heard only snatches of over the past two months, too lost in his own grief and denial to pay attention, had been Blaine terrified that Kurt was slipping further and further away from him. He saw, for the very first time, exactly the kind of bruises he’d been wreaking upon his marriage, and his heart began to ache for an entirely new and different reason.

Hesitantly—it was still Sebastian, after all—Kurt reached over and gently squeezed his hand. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through. I’m sorry that you have to.”

“It was just such a—such a waste. We were so _happy._ For fuck’s sake, we were about to have a kid, and then just as we got the positive, he had to go and get hit by a fucking car, of all the fucking _clichés—“_ Sebastian stopped short, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply through his nose. “I know it wasn’t his fault. I’m just so fucking _angry._ And I have no idea what to do about the goddamn surrogate, either. She’s eight months.”

_“—you remember, Kurt? All those midnight Taco Bell runs? Will you come back to—“_

“Do you have people in New York who can help? Or… Or you could come back to Ohio, or move near your sister?”

“I could never leave New York. I love my kids too much.”

“Your… kids?”

“I’m a teacher,” Sebastian explained. “Elementary.”

“Which school?” Kurt asked, mind racing. Sebastian, a teacher? An elementary school teacher, no less? In what universe was that a reality?

“PS 63 in the East Village. William fucking McKinley, would you believe it?”

“Do they have a tiny glee club?”

“No, thank god,” Sebastian said, with a genuine laugh. “Actually, there’s this little guy in my class, Thomas—and you can’t call him ‘Tom’, or there’s hell to pay—and he reminds me of you. The first morning he walked in, I sat there and asked myself, ‘how is this my life?’”

_“—all you wanted was a pair of sensible heels—“_

“How _did_ you wind up as a teacher? I always figured you for a lawyer.”

“My niece and nephew. They’ve always been so smart, and on the weekends when Belle would bring them to visit they’d bring their homework, and I used to help them with it. Kind of set me up for life.”

“So… It’s obvious that you love kids,” Kurt began carefully, after a pregnant pause. “Why are you having trouble with the idea of your own?”

Sebastian sighed, and wrung his hands together. “Matthew’s the ‘dad’. I… I don’t know. I’m terrified. Not for me—for the kid. For my son. I’m scared that I won’t love him enough. And what the hell would Matthew think of me trying to go it alone?”

“Sebastian, it’s… Obviously I never knew Matthew, so you can tell me to stay out of it if you want, but if this was something you were doing together, I’m sure he would have wanted you to go through with it,” Kurt said gently, trying to gauge with every word whether he was overstepping. “And before the twins were born, I was scared, too. But you’ll never truly know how much love you have to give until the first time you look at them. There’s nothing like it.”

“How old are yours, now?” Sebastian asked, artfully dodging the topic. “You have two, right?”

“Oliver and Audrey. They’ll be—god, fourteen this year,” Kurt said, before continuing, “Ollie’s been saying he wants to be a doctor ever since he went with Blaine to one of his platelet donations, and Audrey’s been making noises lately about politics, because of… Because of my dad.”

_“—want to change the world, even just a little bit of it, like Grandpa—“_

“Your dad whose memorial it is today,” Sebastian stated. “The one you’re avoiding.”

“I’m not avoiding it. It’s not until this afternoon,” Kurt replied haughtily.

“Come on, Kurt. You’re sitting here talking to me instead of being at home with your husband and family. And let’s face it: we fucking hated each other in high school. So yeah, I’d say you’re avoiding it,” Sebastian said, rolling his eyes and sounding so much like his high school self that Kurt couldn’t help but bristle. Sebastian’s tone softened, however, when he added, “sort of feels like everyone’s talking to you but they’re not actually listening, right?”

“Yes, actually,” Kurt said, surprised. “For the past six months of my life, everyone has just seen me as this… No one will talk to _me,_ not even Blaine. They’re talking to the disease, and to the grief, and I’m so tired of it.”

“So _make_ them talk to you. The Kurt Hummel I knew wouldn’t take that crap from anyone,” Sebastian said, and it was so simple a statement that Kurt almost reeled back from the truth of it—the reminder of who he used to be, who he had buried in order to function on a day-to-day basis. He missed that Kurt. “Look, I know we’re not exactly friends, or even acquaintances anymore, really, but… You can just talk, if you want. It’s not like there’s anything else interesting going on around here.”

“I don’t know, you could go look at the lighthouse.”

“Funny. Now, talk.”

Kurt took a deep breath, scrabbling for the key to the box he’d locked away deep in the recesses of his mind. Where to even begin?

_“—if you’re waiting for me to fall apart, you’ll be waiting a long time—“_

“I can’t remember the last words that I said to him,” he began. “He called me the last night I was in the hospital, and I fell asleep two minutes into the conversation. And it’s… Before the bone marrow transplant, before Blaine had to go for the harvest, I made sure to—because you hear those stories, about people who go under anesthetic and never wake up, right? So I—I… I said as much of a goodbye as I could. And I never did that with my dad, because he was my _dad,_ and dads are invincible.

“Blaine’s mom and Carole have been great, and I’m glad that they have each other to lean on. I can’t even imagine what Carole’s going through, losing another husband. But… Suddenly I have an abundance of mothers and all I want is my dad back. Even for five minutes, just so I can tell him what I need to tell him.”

“The last thing I ever said to Matthew was, ‘don’t get that fucking chowder again’,” Sebastian deadpanned, and Kurt let out a shocked laugh. “Kurt, unless you know it’s coming, you’re never going to get to say everything you want to. You just have to remember that whoever that person is that you’ve lost, they knew how much you loved them and… And that has to be enough, because it’s all you have.”

“Kurt?”

At the sound of Blaine’s voice, both Kurt and Sebastian turned to glance back at the shoreline. Blaine was standing a few paces back from the dock, his curls flat on one side and sticking up on the other, with his coat buttoned up wrong, a hollow and pained expression on his face.

_“—no, Twist, of course we’re not getting... Why would you even think—“_

“You should go to him,” Sebastian said in a low voice. “Tell him everything you just told me, because he obviously needs to hear it. And just… Just let him back in. Don’t be so stubborn that it ends up breaking you two.”

“Thank you,” Kurt whispered, briefly touching Sebastian’s shoulder before getting to his feet. He turned to face Blaine and walked the short distance back to him, cutting off whatever he had opened his mouth to say by throwing his arms around him.

There was a pause where Blaine remained stiff, surprised, and then he was returning the embrace tighter than ever, the cool skin of his stubbled jaw pressing into the hollow of Kurt’s neck and his fingertips digging into Kurt’s back, the same as always.

“Are you back?” Blaine asked, his voice small.

“Almost,” Kurt whispered, and Blaine’s fingertips dug in even harder. “I love you, and I’m sorry.”

“I really thought I was losing you,” he said, heaving a great sigh as he stepped back. “Are you okay?”

“No. But I think I will be.”

Blaine’s gloved hands rubbed up and down his arms as he cast a look over Kurt’s shoulder. “Is that who I think it is?” he asked, and Kurt nodded. “What’s he doing here? Last I heard from Nick, he was in Chicago.”

“Long story; I’ll tell you later. Just give me a minute?”

_“—don’t know if he’s ever going to come back to me, not from this—“_

Sebastian didn’t look up when Kurt was next to him once more, just continued to look out at the lake. “Do you need a ride, or… anything?”

“I think I’ll stay a while longer,” Sebastian murmured, fiddling with his ring again. “But thanks.”

“Will you think about what I said?” Kurt asked meaningfully, and Sebastian nodded. After a moment’s pause, Kurt pulled his wallet from his pocket and took out a business card, crouching down to hand it to Sebastian. “Use this, or don’t. It’s up to you. But if you wanted to meet for coffee back in the city, or something… I’d like to meet your son.”

Sebastian sniffed harshly, only meeting Kurt’s eyes in fleeting glances as he took the card. “I’ll—yeah. Thanks.”

“Take care, Sebastian,” Kurt said, making his way back towards where Blaine was waiting, hand outstretched. He took it and placed it in the crook of his own elbow, feeling a little lighter and a lot more ready to face what he was about to. Kurt was ready to take the first steps along the path he should have begun treading nearly two months previously, with Blaine by his side and something heavy—but something that he was prepared to deal with—hanging next to his heart.

It was time.

* * *

**Down to the Bone, Part 7/7**  
Enhance your reading experience by listening to my [writing music](http://borogroves.tumblr.com/post/38646870570) while reading.

_Thursday 5 July, 2040_

The first morning that Kurt had not awoken already exhausted had been a revelation. A flower coming into bloom; a single slow and gradual casting off of a hibernation period; a suspended moment in which the morning sunlight greeted him through the gap between the drapes. Kurt had known, after stretching and sitting up without his head swimming or even wavering, that he had arrived at the end of the tunnel. The feeling of settling, of running his hands over the cool metal of a turnstile, of looking into a mirror and seeing something no longer diaphanous and ridden with anxiety, both familiar and unfamiliar by turns, had been shattering. It had been the flip of a switch, everything bathed in light after the long and lonely dark. It had been a comeback; a return and a rebirth both at once.

Overcome at the weight of his own reflection in the bathroom mirror, Kurt had slipped to the floor, arms wrapped around his knees. Blaine had found Kurt twenty minutes later, time slipping by him as his fingertips ghosted every inch of his own skin, reveling and wallowing in it as he laughed and cried in equal measure. As they both did.

_There had been times, over the previous nine months, where Blaine had wished that life could be more like a movie. That he could settle back on the couch with a bowl of popcorn or a tube of Pringles, press play and be transported to another universe for two hours, where the obstacles still came out of nowhere but were overcome quickly, where he could pause if he needed a moment, or simply walk away if it all got to be too much. Those times, where he had happened to glance at the clock at exactly 11:11, or on the more rare occasion that he had been standing on the balcony considering the stars and caught one shooting across the sky in his peripheral vision, he had wished with all his heart that he could simply erase everything that had happened and every “why?” he had been forced to ask, before falling each night into the tremulous clutches of uneasy sleep, still without answers._

It had been so small a thing, really. But in truth, Kurt had been unable to remember that singularly unique feeling of sleep-sated limbs and clear-headedness that came from only the most deep and peaceful nights, one’s body warm in repose—in short, the feeling of a person who could sleep on without a care in the world. Of someone who had finally, without so much as sensing that it had happened, found themselves with a quarter for the turnstile.

That morning had broken a mere two days before what was to be Kurt’s last blood transfusion and his final consultation with Daniel. Really, it would only serve to confirm the news that the whole family had known was coming for over a month, ever since his blood type had at last settled into its new status as O-positive, but nonetheless, it was necessary in order for this chapter of their lives, after so many months of aching and upheaval and ruin, to at last be concluded and laid to rest.

_Then there were the times that he was grateful for the pauses simply for the breathing space they permitted, bringing with them the opportunity to brace himself, no matter how certain the outcome. Those were the moments where he had become accustomed to counting his blessings, just in case he lost one. To reaching out and re-familiarizing himself with the lines on the palm of Kurt’s hand, the soft strands of his newly-grown hair, the shape of the dip in his collarbone. To memorizing a particular smile of Audrey’s that wasn’t reminiscent of Kurt or Kristy or even himself, but entirely her own. To committing to heart the sound of Oliver’s surprised bark of laughter whenever Kurt’s wit had, even on his worst days, still been lightning-quick._

_In some ways, Blaine felt an unexpected sense of gratitude. Not for Kurt’s illness, never for that; instead, simply being given the knowledge that life as he knew it could end and yet somehow still continue. He could grow new legs and learn to walk again, and so could his loved ones. They had been forced into traversing a new world requiring bravery and strength none of them could have ever known how to capture or possess, or even if it was really there all along, just waiting to be put to work._

Considering the past nine months, Kurt found himself with swimming eyes that had nothing to do with the final stitch that was being put into place, the inevitably ensuing scar to be the only lasting physical reminder of the broviac that had, quite literally, been his lifeline. Blaine’s hand clutched in his own, always his constant, kept him from disappearing too readily into the ever-present heaviness of his most recent past, that ghost of Burt that still hung in his periphery, smiling with pride and affection and love. Kurt knew that Blaine saw him too, from time to time—not a ghost, merely a sense memory borne of habit when they had needed his comforting presence, even as adults, from six hundred miles away.

Kurt smiled, squeezed Blaine’s hand, watched Oliver’s rapt attention on the nurse’s careful handiwork while Audrey hid her face in Blaine’s shoulder, her meticulous curls a shock of brown against the duck-egg blue of Blaine’s thin, long-sleeved shirt. He took a moment to watch each of them in turn, to catalog the myriad changes in their faces, postures, mannerisms.

_All things considered, they had managed. And wasn’t that the best they ever could have hoped for?_

_In any case, they had decided to take a trip to Montauk: the place where, seventeen years almost to the day previously, the path had been set. Where ‘The End’ had actually proved a beginning. By the time they were situated in their spot on Gin Beach, their dinner picnic spread around them, each of the four members of the Hummel-Anderson family were a little tired, a little grouchy, but altogether grateful to have finally gotten out of the car to stretch their legs and bask in the warmth of the fading evening sun._

Both Audrey and Oliver were standing straighter these days, as if pushing back against all the weight that had attempted to bear down upon them. Gone was some of the youth from Audrey’s eyes, where she seemed to have taken that weight and turned it to fuel, driving her every spare moment toward anything that could bring her closer to her newly-established dream of retreading her grandpa’s footsteps and pursuing a career in politics.

Oliver walked with actual steps as opposed to trudges, having fallen back out of the teenage stereotype just as quickly as he had fallen into it. He spoke up, made himself heard, asked all the questions he could until his newfound sense of curiosity had been fed a satisfying meal that took him hours to quietly digest as he put facts and figures together in his mind, forging and memorizing the connections between them.

And Blaine… There were new lines on his face, at the corners of his mouth and eyes. The smattering of light in his hair had spread, his father’s premature gray overtaking the exotic heritage of his mother’s side. Yes, he looked older, but to Kurt, never more handsome. His family had had to radically and repeatedly redefine their baseline for what constituted everyday normality, and while not one solitary second of it had been easy—most of it had hurt like all hell, in fact—they were finally on the other side, scarred yet healing as they still, somehow, stood strong. Kurt knew beyond all doubt that the reason was Blaine.

 _Things were as quiet, peaceful, and unchanged as Blaine remembered them, and he couldn’t help but smile. Kurt and the twins were comfortably quiet as they tucked into sandwiches and chips, and the last line of the folksy, upbeat song that had played over the credits of the movie Audrey had been watching on the Zephyr during the drive was playing on repeat in his mind:_ ‘How am I getting home?’

_“You okay, honey?” Kurt asked, craning his head to glance back at Blaine._

“Sweetheart? Are you ready?” Blaine asked, and Kurt pulled himself from his woolgathering to see his husband and children gazing at him expectantly, excitedly. They were just as ready as Kurt to have it all become a memory, an experience that someday they would look back upon with a grimace that time would have faded into the slightest downturn of lips, and recognize it as something horrific, yet something that had shaped them.

 _“So_ ready,” Kurt replied.

_“Never better,” Blaine answered as he took in the renewed strength in Kurt’s body, the way his shoulders and waist had filled out once more, how he could perform simple tasks like leaning over and dragging the cooler closer to where he was sitting between Blaine’s legs and retrieving a bottle of lemonade without his breathing becoming labored. “Look at you. You’re my big, strong man again.”_

_“Ew, Dad,” Oliver tossed over his shoulder as he finished rolling up the cuffs of his jeans, grabbed a sandwich and strode off down the sand, weaving through the tightly-crowded beach. Blaine rolled his eyes at Kurt, who was busying himself attempting to stifle a smile that belied how pleased he was to hear Blaine’s words._

The journey up to Daniel’s office was short—not that long walks were something that Kurt had trouble with anymore—and he welcomed them all inside with his usual genial smile, the one that Kurt had received for years. Some things never changed (and even when some changes were for the better, the few constants still remained comforting).

“How are you feeling today?” Daniel asked when they were all seated on the expansive couch at the back of his office, Oliver on Kurt’s left and Audrey on Blaine’s right.

“Like I’m about to get the news I’ve been waiting nine months for,” Kurt quipped, before Daniel raised his eyebrows good-naturedly and Kurt relented. “Truthfully, I’ve never felt better. And it’s not just feeling healthy again; it’s knowing what ‘healthy’ actually feels like.”

_“When you take the weird out of it, like, that you’re our dads, you’re actually totally cute,” Audrey said as she took a handful of chips from the bag closest to her, and Blaine grinned as he wrapped his arms around Kurt’s waist, loosening his hold when he caught himself and realised that the only weight he needed to hold up nowadays was his own._

_“Just ‘cute’?” Kurt asked, eyes sparkling with humor. “I think we’re hot. Maybe even_ sexy.”

_“Too far, Papa,” Audrey told him matter-of-factly, and lowered her sunglasses over her eyes, turning back to her PalmBook and replacing both her earbuds._

Daniel nodded his understanding, a smile forming on his lips. “Until you’ve faced the opposite…”

“Exactly,” Kurt agreed, taking Blaine’s hand and squeezing a gentle _thank you._ “So. Not to put too fine a point on it, but… Well, I never want to see that manila folder again.”

“You won’t have to,” Daniel confirmed, his smile morphing into a rare and brilliant grin. Kurt could have kissed him. “We’re done here, Kurt. No more transfusions, and only regular blood tests from now on. You did it.”

“We _all_ did it,” Kurt corrected, his own grin just as fiercely happy and relieved. He stood, and Daniel rose to meet the offered handshake that soon became a grateful embrace, Kurt whispering, “thank you, thank you so much.”

 _“Definitely hot,” Kurt whispered, turning his head and pressing a kiss to Blaine’s temple. “And_ very _sexy.”_

_“Still? Even though I’m middle-aged, now?” Blaine asked wryly._

_“Mmhmm.”_

_“Good. Because lately I’ve been thinking that I’d look fantastic behind the wheel of a sports car,” he continued mock-thoughtfully._

_“Blaine...” Kurt trailed off; a warning wrapped in knowing humor._

_“Just a little one. Red, maybe,” Blaine mused, glancing sidelong at Kurt._

It was over. It was finally, gloriously over. Later, there would be parties. Kurt knew his husband, knew that he would want to celebrate this moment, and the clear future. People would crowd into their home, and Kurt would let himself get swept up in the good cheer and the joy, sing and dance and make conversation and then, at some point in the evening he would catch Blaine’s gaze across the room and smile their secret smile, the one they reserved only for one another. They had it all to look forward to again, and the feeling was heady.

For now, though, all Kurt wanted was the space to adjust, and simply be. When they arrived home, with the closing of their front door blocking out all other noise, each of the four Hummel-Andersons stood for a moment in the entryway, quiet and jubilant and all, in their own ways, victorious. They smiled, and hugged, and separated to their own areas of the house: Audrey to the den (no doubt in search of her discarded copy of the latest _New Republic);_ Oliver upstairs; Kurt and Blaine down the hall to the kitchen.

 _“Wow. You really_ are _middle-aged,” Kurt agreed, his tone grave. “Maybe we didn’t need to stay out at the house, after all. Maybe after the fireworks, we should just go home and get you straight to bed. After all, most days you want your pipe and slippers at eight sharp, and you’re ready for bed by nine.”_

_“Sweetheart, trust me, we definitely need to be at the house tonight.”_

_“Hmm, if you say so, old man.”_

_“You do remember that you’re older than me, right?”_

_“I do,” Kurt confirmed. “But don’t tell me you don’t remember being the one that Santana once referred to as ‘sexy grandpa’. Because I know you do.”_

“This is where it all began,” Blaine said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“And also where it ends,” Kurt said firmly, leading Blaine by the hand to the very spot where Blaine had found him, that awful and terrifying September day. He stood in the afternoon sunlight that flooded in through the window, stretching out his arms and slowly turning on the spot. “I’m still here, good as new. Better, in fact. So you can let go now, honey.”

Blaine caught Kurt halfway through his second rotation, arms wrapping tightly around his waist from behind, and whispered, “I know. I have. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Kurt replied, and then, “thank you for keeping me here, keeping me yours, and theirs. Thank you for saving my life.”

Blaine’s exhale and the kiss that followed it were warm against the skin of Kurt’s neck, and he smiled when Blaine said simply, “any time”.

_The battle was lost; Kurt knew it as well as Blaine did, and it was one that he was happy to concede. In lieu of pursuing it any further, he simply held onto his husband a little tighter, feeling Kurt go lax in his arms and succumb to the embrace. Blaine glanced around at the other beachgoers, couples sharing blankets and families with boisterous children chasing each other in the surf, some of them glancing over every now and then with recognition clear in their eyes but still mostly retaining that Montauk sense of disinterest—they were just another family hanging out, waiting for the fourth of July fireworks. It was refreshing and somewhat relieving, particularly on a day that Blaine was unconcerned with who they were to the rest of the world, only with who they were to one another._

_When the darkness had descended, when they had all eaten as much as they could and were stretched out on the sand, lying back on their blankets, Kurt curled himself into Blaine’s side. His fingers drifted back and forth across Blaine’s stomach in indiscernible patterns and tiny figures of eight, and as Blaine listened to a group further down the beach singing an a cappella version of_ Swing Low, _he smiled. He let himself breathe, think about infinity, and waited for the fireworks to begin._

* * *

_Saturday 27 August 2044_

“You were always so strong for me,” Kurt said heavily, hand resting splayed out over the page, the words of the official letter containing his final diagnosis of full health peeking out between his fingers. “You were always so good with the kids, and making sure I had everything I needed, and figuring things out for us. How did you keep going like that, for so long?”

Blaine pursed his lips, and shook his head, winding his fingers between Kurt's and squeezing. “You were always the strong one, Kurt. And when you couldn't be... It made me see that I needed to step up for you,” he said, scratching his other hand through his hair before resting his temple on the heel of his hand. “When... When I was at my most scared, it... You know, when you're with someone for so long, and you've been in love with them almost since before you can remember, you develop these habits. They know you love them, and so you don't need to say it as often. You show it in other ways. Little things, like when you'll make sure to get the pizza with the thin crust because you know I don't like it any other way, or when I’ll pick up an extra bottle of the Clinique so you never run out.

“But being faced with the—the possibility that you wouldn't...” Blaine trailed off and swallowed thickly. “Time suddenly just had this... immediacy. There was a chance that one day soon, you weren't going to be there first thing in the morning, or last thing at night. So I had to be strong for you, because if you saw me being strong, maybe it would make you want to keep fighting.”

“Blaine,” Kurt whispered, hands coming up to frame Blaine's face with a grounding, affirming touch. “I will _always_ want to keep fighting for you. Just the thought of you and the kids... Even on the worst days, when I was so tired that I could only stay awake for an hour a day, and then I spent that entire hour wanting to give up and have it be over, all it took was... Blaine, you told me everything that you needed to tell me. You didn't waste a single moment with me, and you haven't since. That was what kept me going.”

Blaine covered Kurt’s hands with his own, offering him a watery smile. “Do you ever wonder about what might have happened if you’d been out sick that day?”

“What day?”

“You know which day.”

“Blaine. How many years have we been together? There have been a lot of days.”

Blaine sighed, grinning, and dropped his head briefly before looking back up at Kurt, eyes sparkling. “The day Puck told you to come spy on us, of course. The day our lives changed. What if you’d been out sick, or I’d been on time, or my parents had forced me to go to boarding school in Connecticut or something?”

Kurt smiled, the quirk of his lips full of nostalgia for two wayward boys who hadn’t known, who couldn’t have known. “We would have found each other, one way or another. Maybe I’d have run into you at Sectionals, or at NYU, or anywhere. We’d have found each other.”

“You really think so?”

After a firm kiss, Kurt answered, “I know so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Scrapbook:** [The Scientist](http://borogroves.tumblr.com/post/32950715961) | [Letters From The Sky](http://borogroves.tumblr.com/post/32452139486) | [Rivers](http://borogroves.tumblr.com/post/28196264485) | [Writing Music 6/7](http://borogroves.tumblr.com/post/34246881573) | [The Lonely Dock](http://borogroves.tumblr.com/post/34493980011) | [Writing Music 7/7](http://borogroves.tumblr.com/post/34493980011) | [In The Water](http://borogroves.tumblr.com/post/38975544474) | [Swing Low](http://borogroves.tumblr.com/post/38975544474) | [A Note of Thanks](http://borogroves.tumblr.com/post/38754340973)


	21. Passing the Mantel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** This chapter PG-13  
>  **Disclaimer:** I paint the pictures; I just borrow the names.  
>  **Notes:** Massive thank-yous to , my Alpha Beta, and [Axe](http://randomactsofdouchebaggery.tumblr.com), my Omega Beta. Only one chapter left!

**Chapter Twenty-One - Passing the Mantel**   
_Saturday 27 August 2044_

“Honey, can you print the pictures for me?” Kurt asked quietly, focusing his attention on The Book’s next set of blank pages, and mentally cycling through different color schemes. The leaves of the trees in the front garden were already being overtaken by reds, oranges and browns that spread from the center outward to edges that were prematurely curling in on themselves. Fall was approaching, slowly but surely, and for thirty-three years the season had reminded him of thick fingers fumbling with a silk tie, Bruno Mars songs, and vows to love, honor, and cherish.

“Sweetheart, are you alright?” Blaine asked from above him.

“Hmm? I’m fine,” Kurt replied, absently curling his fingers around the warm weight of Blaine’s hand on his shoulder. “I just need a minute.”

A lingering kiss fell upon his hair, along with a whispered, “be right back,” and then Kurt was alone in the library. He breathed deeply, reclined as well as he could in his chair, and glanced up at the shelves above the desk. They were littered with the twins’ creations throughout the years—the smooth, flat pebble Audrey had painted as a ladybug with nail polish at age five; the wooden marionette Oliver had made in the fifth grade that still gave him chills if he looked at it for too long—along with photographs from elementary, middle, and high school graduations. The more time he spent gazing upon the relics of the past eighteen years of his life, the more Kurt expected the fact of the twins’ absence to ache, as it had done all day. Yet somehow, having spent the evening reliving not only the past eighteen years, but almost their entire past as a couple, the knot of emptiness in his stomach had gradually unraveled before dissipating completely. He wasn’t so foolish as to think it was gone forever, but at least for the evening, he felt much less ill at ease.

While he waited for Blaine to return with the photographs, printed on paper so glossy that Kurt would be able to hold it up in front of his face and compare his own features with those of his children (he still maintained that there was at least something of a resemblance between himself and his son), he unlocked the left desk drawer and took out his planner. Listening keenly for sounds of Blaine’s feet padding down the hallway, he rapidly ran through the itinerary for the following day, glancing over the map and making sure that everything was in order. That morning, he had of course confirmed arrangements with everyone involved, but it never hurt to be certain. Everything had to be perfect, and barring fire and flood, everything would be.

Kurt locked his planner away once more just as he heard Blaine returning from his studio, and by the time Blaine plopped back into his seat and dropped the photographs onto the desk, Kurt had busied himself entirely with backing sheets and corners.

*

_Thursday 25 August 2044_

“Alright, they’re nearly home,” Blaine announced after hanging up the phone. The drapes had all been drawn closed against the light of the approaching evening, and everyone gathered there was sitting silently in wait. “Is everybody ready?”

“Ready,” Bianca, Audrey's best friend, confirmed from her position behind the couch.

Two minutes later, the unnatural silence of the twenty or thirty friends of Audrey and Oliver hunkered down in awkward positions and spread throughout the living room was beginning to get to Blaine, and even he couldn’t help but start tapping his feet impatiently.

On one hand, he couldn’t wait for the twins to be out of the house and off to their respective colleges—their rooms had been emptied of clothes, books, and photographs, and their cars were packed. There was only one night left before Audrey and Oliver would be flying the nest and off to start the degrees that would set them on the individual paths they had chosen to tread. And Blaine was excited for them. He was. He well remembered what it was like to take those first steps out of the house on the morning he left for college. It had been like casting off an iron body suit: suddenly, he was walking taller. He could move his limbs freely and without fear of reprimand. His breath came a little more easily, and all at once he felt like he was living, rather than simply trying to survive those barren and Kurt-less days when even the slightest nod of affirmation and support from his father would have eased his sadness immeasurably. Though he didn’t think Audrey and Oliver felt even a shadow of his own teenage discontent, he could still appreciate their need to spread their wings—there were days when he still felt eighteen himself.

His excitement, however, didn't temper the keen eye he had for the trepidation and anxiety that his children's faces held whenever they thought he and Kurt weren't looking. They were scared, uncertain of the future that was rushing headlong toward them. Audrey and Oliver were not only both leaving home, but also leaving one another—Audrey to Sarah Lawrence in Bronxville, and Oliver to Johns Hopkins in Baltimore. They had lived in each other's pockets their whole lives, still sometimes spoke to one another in Twinglish, hadn't ever spent longer than a couple of summer camp weeks apart, and were about to find themselves on opposite ends of a phone or internet connection for the better part of their foreseeable future. While technology had grown and evolved almost impossibly far since the days of simple cell phones and Skype, anyone could attest to the fact that it still wasn't the same as breathing the same air as the person who embodied your single strongest emotional connection.

Their baselines for normal, everyday life were about to be radically redefined, and Blaine knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that both of them were, at least in part, terrified. Which led him and Kurt to make the obvious choice: a surprise going-away party, one last night at home for them to make memories that might offer them a measure of comfort on those days that seemed like wading through an ocean of homesickness.

The low-level whispers and fidgeting that had been building throughout the room suddenly dropped into silence at the sound of the front door being closed, and Blaine's smile grew wide in anticipation.

“Sis, I don’t know how you can still be arguing with me on this one,” Oliver’s voice floated in.

“I can argue with you because sure, Cuomo passed the bill, but he would never have been able to if it weren’t for Obama paving the way in the first place,” Audrey argued back, and Blaine inwardly rolled his eyes. The twins’ debate on which President had been more influential in the passing of the 2020 Nationwide Marriage Equality Act had been going on for weeks, reaching stalemate after stalemate. If there was one thing Blaine could say they both had hardwired from Kurt, it was his stubbornness.

“Kids, why are you still arguing this?” Kurt asked wearily, and Blaine could almost see his husband pinching between his eyes.

“Because it needs to be settled before we leave,” Oliver replied.

“Can’t you just agree to disagree? You’ve both made very valid arguments and frankly, your Dad and I are sick of hearing about it.”

“Papa! How can you be sick of hearing about it? This is your _history,”_ Audrey reminded him, scandalized.

“Exactly. It’s our history, and we lived through it,” Kurt said, “and I know that you’re about to drag us both into it, so can we just go into the living room? I’d at least like to be sitting down for round twenty-seven.”

Without even looking, Blaine felt everyone in the room tense. As soon as he heard Audrey’s heels click onto the wood flooring of the living room, he flicked on the lights.

_“Surprise!”_

The twins’ faces were a picture of shock and awe as they took in the room, decorated with bright streamers and clusters of balloons, along with a banner hung over the fireplace that read, _Good Luck!_ Blaine flicked his gaze briefly to Kurt, who had left Blaine to put up all of the decorations while distracting the twins with a final round of shopping for college supplies and an afternoon movie, and Kurt nodded with a beatific smile.

“Oh my god, what did you guys do?” Audrey asked as Bianca came forward and swept her into a hug.

“Your dads called me and said they were having a going-away party for you, so I got as many of the group together as I could,” Bianca answered. “We wanted one last chance to see you before you leave tomorrow, so… here we are.”

“And hey, we couldn’t let you leave without doing the Twist one last time,” Tate supplied, nudging Oliver’s shoulder as his group of friends nodded in agreement.

“Come on, guys. You know I only do that when it’s someone’s birthday,” Oliver replied with an easy smile.

“It’s my birthday!” Jenny piped up from the back of the room, and everyone turned to stare at her. Sheepishly, she shrugged. “Okay, fine. It was yesterday. But the Twist is legendary!”

“Maybe,” Oliver said, eyes lingering on her for a moment before he turned back to Blaine and Kurt, who were exchanging a knowing glance. “You guys, this is… The best. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Kurt said, placing his hand on Oliver’s shoulder in such a way that it always reminded Blaine of his father-in-law. “Now, there’s pizza on the way and the money’s on the table. Drinks are in the kitchen, but anyone driving stays sober. Got it?”

Oliver’s eyes widened almost comically. “You’re _letting_ us drink?”

Blaine grinned. “There’s not enough in there to give you all hangovers—“

“—or have you questioning your sexuality for a day or two,” Kurt interrupted with an innocent smile. Audrey dropped her head, shoulders shaking as she pursed her lips and glanced from side to side. Aunt Rachel had delighted in being asked to warn her adopted niece and nephew of the dangers of alcohol, and had done an undeniably good job of both scaring them off for a couple years, and embarrassing the hell out of Kurt and Blaine. “Once upon a time, we were your age. Just be responsible.”

“Thank you,” Audrey said, stepping forward to hug her fathers. Both Kurt and Blaine held on tight, and they would only admit to one another that they probably held on a little too long.

“We’ll be upstairs if you need anything, alright? Don’t have the music too loud,” Blaine told them, sensing everyone in the room growing more and more eager to get the party started. Oliver nodded with one last grateful smile, then turned and crossed the room to dock his iPod. Blaine jerked his head in the direction of the hall, and took Kurt’s hand. “That’s our cue.”

*

“So, when I told them not to have the music too loud…”

“Please, they’re all semi-deaf from their iPods anyway. They can only hear it when it’s loud enough to make the walls bleed.”

Blaine huffed a laugh and sipped at his glass of wine, letting his head tip back so that he could watch the stars beginning to come out. The party had been going for hours with no upstairs appearances from either of the Hummel-Anderson children, and neither Kurt nor Blaine had heard anything aside from music and laughter. They had spent their evening with their own pizza, feeding each other bites like they were teenagers all over again; sitting on blankets on the floor of apartment eighteen because their furniture hadn’t been delivered yet. Kurt had finished reading the latest Kilo Connery novel while Blaine had re-watched Andrew Garfield’s most recent movie, before they moved their quiet party of two onto the balcony to share the relative peace and a bottle of wine.

Abruptly, Kurt stood and moved to lean on the flat wooden railing of the balcony, one foot resting on the bottom slat. Blaine admired the view from his chair, reaching out to let his knuckles brush the back of Kurt’s thigh. Kurt glanced back at his husband with a tight, weary smile before letting out a deep sigh and closing his eyes.

“I hate most music nowadays,” he said sadly. “Where is this generation’s Lady Gaga, or Katy Perry? Where is their _Madonna?”_

“Don’t get me started,” Blaine replied, shaking his head and joining Kurt at the railing. “I am so beyond sick of working with Tomika at this point. Every single day, it’s ‘more bass, Blaine! The kids want to see me shake it, I need more bass!’ No, Tomika, the kids do not want to see you shake it. The kids are twelve and under.”

“And the TV shows,” Kurt continued, swallowing a large gulp of wine. “What happened to unhealthy, dysfunctional friendships where one character could, I don’t know, pass wind a block away and the other one would know within three seconds or less? Now it’s all increasingly stupid reality shows about increasingly flawed people. Like the fact that they’re unhinged is something to be proud of, not seek professional help for.”

“Sweetheart, where is all this coming from?” Blaine asked gently, taking in the tension woven into the set of Kurt’s shoulders, and the way he held his head perfectly straight. The night lights dotted throughout the back yard were just flickering into life, and the darker blue flecks of Kurt’s eyes seemed illuminated with them, taking on an ethereal luminescence that made them appear caught somewhere between impossible youth and timeless age.

“We’re old, Blaine,” Kurt said, a certain sadness coloring his tone. “We’re being left behind. Tomorrow afternoon, this house will be empty for the first time in eighteen years, and—oh god, I miss my twenties… I—I just don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

Blaine hummed and moved closer, nudging Kurt’s arm with his own. “Just think of all the clean bedrooms,” he began, layering his tone with one of false yet abject disdain. “And the dishes, Kurt. Think of having all the dishes in one place, instead of harboring new and prosperous civilizations underneath Twist’s bed.”

Kurt inclined his head slightly, though his eyes remained fixed on some point in the middle distance. “Go on.”

“No rushing home at the end of the day, no high school drama, no stacks of books in the hallway to trip over,” Blaine listed, his voice dripping with more and more foreboding as he moved closer to Kurt and traced the outer shell of his ear with his fingertips. Between pressing feather-light kisses to Kurt’s neck and the curve of his jaw, he continued, “We’ll be able to have sex wherever and whenever we want… And I guess we’ll just have to do it on the island again. Ugh. The worst.”

“You just _had_ to bring up the island,” Kurt said long-sufferingly. Briefly, he leant into Blaine’s touch. “Okay, so it might not be all bad. But what about Friday Night Dinner, or… Sunday mornings on the deck?”

“Sweetheart, I don’t know how to tell you this, but… We haven’t spent Sunday morning on the deck in at least four years.”

Kurt turned to face the other way, straightening and crossing his arms over his chest. Blaine waited the full and requisite ten seconds before stepping closer and wrapping Kurt in his arms from behind, lips resting lightly on Kurt’s shoulder.

“Blaine, they were… Yesterday, they were babies. You know, they were crawling all over each other and writing on the walls in crayon and dancing on our feet. And now they’re reading about politics and medicine and having debates that go on for _weeks,_ and… And they’re leaving us.”

“Kurt, look at me,” Blaine said firmly, and Kurt’s shoulders dropped as he turned in Blaine’s arms, his eyes brimming. “They’re not leaving _us._ They’re just leaving _here._ And here is just a place, Kurt; it could be anywhere.”

“That’s what you told me the day I left for New York,” Kurt replied quietly, a reluctant tumble back into nostalgic fondness clear in his voice.

_Inside the doors of Columbus Airport, the morning bustle of businesspeople was long since over, and passengers coming home from late summer vacations were yet to arrive. The only people there were him and the remaining members of New Directions and band, and a few of the airport staff who had agreed to help him out. The automatic doors slowly yawned wide, and in strode Kurt, wiping away tears and turning to wave one last time at Burt. As soon as Kurt turned and caught sight of them gathered together, Blaine took one look at the expression on his face and swept him into the tightest hug he had the strength for._

_“Ask me to stay,” Kurt whispered into Blaine’s ear, his voice wavering._

_Stepping back, Blaine shook his head. “No, Kurt. This is where you’re going,” he affirmed, flicking at the tickets in Kurt’s hand._

_“But I don’t want to leave you.”_

_“You’re not leaving me. You’re just leaving_ here,” _Blaine corrected. He nodded to Artie, Tina and Joe, who immediately began[beating out a rhythm](http://borogroves.tumblr.com/post/39962038172) on the empty hard-shell suitcases they’d brought. “And we were afraid that you’d get cold feet at the last minute, so we put together a number for you just in case. No pun intended.”_

_Kurt laughed, though the sound was thin and stretched and lacking any of its usual musicality._

_“’Here’ is just a place, Kurt. It could be anywhere,” Blaine said, before taking in a deep breath and beginning the song._ “So this is what you meant when you said that you were spent, and now it’s time to build from the bottom of the pit right to the top. Don’t look back, packing my bags and giving the academy a rain check.”

_Blaine knew that the expression on Kurt’s face when the airport staff joined in with his friends after the second verse would stay with him forever: disbelief mingled with awe and a pure, indelible love that showed all of the footprints left on his heart._

“It’s time to begin, isn’t it? I get a little bit bigger but then I’ll admit I’m just the same as I was. Now don’t you understand? I’m never changing who I am.”

_As the song ended, Artie, Tina and Joe playing them out with the final beats, Kurt threw his arms around Blaine’s neck and held on so tightly that Blaine felt as if Kurt were trying to fuse them into one being, one single breathing entity. He heard nothing of the applause that Sugar would later rave about, nor did he notice the staff disperse and return to their daily tasks. All he saw, all he felt, all he knew was Kurt._

_“I’m never saying goodbye to you,” he whispered into Kurt’s ear, stealing the words for himself. He even managed to laugh when Kurt wryly replied, “That’s my line.”_

Blaine smiled at the memory. “That’s right,” he said, “and you didn’t leave me, did you? You just left the place.”

“You’re right,” Kurt sighed, leaning down and burrowing his face into the hollow of Blaine’s neck. “I just wish… I just wish that I knew without doubt that they wouldn’t come back different people.”

“I know. Me too.”

“Daddy?”

Blaine turned in Kurt’s arms and saw Audrey standing in the open doorway, her eyes bright with hope. “Will you play something for us? Everybody’s getting ready to leave, but they wanted to hear you sing one last time, so…”

“What do you think?” he asked Kurt.

“You know what I think,” Kurt answered, and nodded in the direction of the door.

They followed Audrey downstairs, where the volume was turned down, and the music shut off completely when they entered the living room. The half of the group that had been in the kitchen trailed in after them and filled the edges of the living room, most of the cleared floor space already claimed by kids sitting or standing, holding red cups and smiling nostalgically.

“I sang this song to Papa once, when he transferred back to McKinley,” Blaine said, seating himself at the piano and flexing his fingers. “I sang it because I wanted him to know that I understood why he had to leave Dalton, and that I’d still always be there for him. That goes for you kids, too. And we’re going to miss you so much, but you’re going to be amazing. You _are_ amazing.”

“Daddy,” Audrey whispered, her palm pressed against her chest as she tried not to start crying.

Blaine smiled at the twins each in turn, and [began playing](http://borogroves.tumblr.com/post/39962048341). As he progressed through the traditional introduction, the one that he always played when performing the song on his own, he was aware of the twins’ friends pairing off and starting to slow dance, and when he turned to look, Oliver was taking Audrey’s hand with a grin.

_“I walked across an empty land; I knew the pathway like the back of my hand. I felt the earth beneath my feet; sat by the river and it made me complete. Oh simple thing, where have you gone? I’m getting old and I need something to rely on. So tell me when you’re gonna let me in; I’m getting tired and I need somewhere to begin.”_

Feather-light fingers brushed across the line of Blaine’s shoulders and Kurt took a seat to his right at the baby grand, layering his own harmony beneath Blaine’s vocal. Despite the melancholic nature of the song, Blaine couldn’t help but smile at both their shared memories of courtyard serenades, and the fact that Kurt was singing along with him—it was far more rare an occurrence than Blaine would have liked, and one that he treasured whenever Kurt chose to join him, particularly when it was one of the songs he counted as theirs.

As Audrey, Oliver and their friends all swayed around the room, Kurt’s voice grew stronger and stronger, to the point where the song became a duet. When they had reached the end, Blaine let the final keys of the piano fade and they sang the final chorus over again. For themselves and their shared history; for their children and the trials of the present; for their future, the questions and specters of the unknown hanging ahead like a shimmering mirage. They sang for their entire world, the one they had worked for and toiled over and cultivated together, for and because of one another. They had reached the point that an entire eighteen years had been leading towards, and for all the preparations and arrangements they had made for the twins, Kurt and Blaine had neglected to make any for themselves. Regardless, the world was shifting beneath their feet and everything was about to change: as they sang, they thought, lamented, considered, and stepped a degree closer to acceptance.

_“And if you have a minute why don’t we go talk about it somewhere only we know? This could be the end of everything, so why don’t we go somewhere only we know? Somewhere only we know.”_

*

_Friday 26 August 2044_

By the time Kurt’s 7:30 a.m. alarm went off on Friday morning, he had already woken up three times.

At 3:55, it was with an ‘oof!’ as Blaine’s arm swung over and landed heavily across Kurt’s stomach.

At 4:20, it was with a soft inhale; evidently, Blaine hadn’t been able to get back to sleep after Kurt had elbowed his side in retaliation, and had decided to apologize with a smattering of light, lingering kisses that tingled across the bare skin of his chest and the summer-freckled hollow of his neck. Leaden-limbed and eyes still closed, Kurt had dragged Blaine back up to face level and matched him kiss for lazy kiss, until he had answered sleep’s beckoning call with his head pillowed on Blaine’s chest and Blaine’s arms wrapped around him.

At 6:16, it was with a start and a sob. His eyes were wet from the tears he’d been crying in his dream as Audrey and Oliver walked out of the front door without so much as a backward glance, pinky fingers linked and laughter pealing behind them. The path to the street had been so, so short. All the twins had had to do was turn a corner and they would have been out of sight completely, and that was exactly what they had done. No goodbye, and Kurt had known beyond all reasonable doubt that he would never see them again. The tears had flowed, and he’d sunk to the top step of the porch, wrapped his arms around his knees and wept.

Rolling onto his back, he grabbed a tissue from the box by the bed and wiped his eyes, then dropped it into the wastebasket and crossed his arms over his chest. Blaine was snoring softly, the cars had already started going by outside, and sunlight was beaming around the edges of the drapes. There was no way he was getting back to sleep.

At 7:30, Kurt opened his eyes. He carefully extracted his arm from beneath Blaine’s neck, where they had somehow in the space of an hour ended up spooning, and switched off the alarm. He slowly swung his legs out from beneath the comforter, slid his feet into his slippers, picked up his robe from the back of his dresser chair. Pulled back the drapes gradually so as not to wake Blaine, tied his robe at the waist, stretched his arms over his head and stood stock still as he waited for the dizziness to subside and his vertebrae to settle. Moved to the bathroom, showered quickly and brushed his teeth. Styled his hair into a sweeping coiffure; something he hadn’t done in years. Dressed in a red shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a heavy black brocade waistcoat and matching tie, fitted black pants and dress shoes.

“What’s the armor for?” Blaine asked, his voice raspy with sleep and his eyes morning-dull. Kurt stifled a grimace and crossed the room to press a kiss to Blaine’s cheek.

“Can you make sure the kids are up? I’m bringing breakfast back.”

“Kurt.”

Blaine’s hand was on Kurt’s wrist, his eyes searching, and since the first time Blaine had broken down Kurt’s barriers in surroundings of mahogany and grandeur, Kurt never had quite been able to keep them up around himself for long.

“I just needed some reinforcements today. That’s all,” he said, grudgingly conceding defeat. Blaine nodded, lips pursed into a thin line of understanding, and Kurt kissed his knuckles before striding from the room, full of purpose and the desperate need for fresh air and caffeine.

Kurt pulled the front door closed behind him and stood for a moment at the top of the stairs, considering his options. Upon waking, he had been in the mood for some of Andrew’s madeleines, but it was a Friday. He had to contend with New York City traffic every day of the week, and he was not about to do it if he absolutely didn’t have to. Descending the steps, he took a right and walked the ten minutes to Bien Cuit, calling in his order as he went.

The detour he took on his way back led him to Cobble Hill Park, past a motley crew of a string quartet [practicing in the seclusion](http://borogroves.tumblr.com/post/31679210232) before, presumably, heading into the city for the day. As he walked by, taking in the almost balletic quality of the piece they were playing, heavy with drama and story and sadness, he dropped a few bills into one of their open instrument cases. The music followed him to one of the park benches, and his eyes roved over the empty expanse of green before him as he set down his cup tray and pastry box. He took a sip of his iced chai latte and gazed at the sandbox and jungle gym, unwilling to take a seat lest he linger too long and become wrapped up in ghostly images of the past.

The wind was singing through the trees in time with the quartet playing their somber piece into a blossoming crescendo, and as the music reached its peak, Kurt’s breeze-stung eyes filled with tears.

“This is ridiculous, it’s not like they’re going to Timbuktu,” Kurt muttered under his breath, frustrated with himself as he swiped at his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Composing himself, he stood for a moment more to reach out and savor the simple quiet of the neighborhood at 8am before setting his cup back in the tray, retrieving the box, and leaving the park behind.

When he got home, the house seemed to be deserted. _Start getting used to it,_ Kurt thought bitterly, before jumping at the warm hands covering his eyes.

“Good morning, Papa,” Audrey sing-songed, and Kurt relaxed, the sudden tension draining away.

“Morning, Hep,” Kurt replied. “What’s going on?”

“We’ve got a surprise for you. It’s out back, but you have to keep your eyes closed,” she said firmly, removing her hands and taking the box and tray from him. He heard shuffling, probably as she balanced them in one hand.

“Yes, ma’am,” Kurt answered, and then Audrey was leading him by the wrist through the house to the back yard, where the soles of his shoes clicked against the wood of the decking.

“Okay, open your eyes.”

For a moment, Kurt did nothing but blink, only took in Blaine and Oliver sitting on the bench and the stack of plates and the New York Times Sunday Edition folded on the table.

“Dad said you missed Sunday mornings on the deck,” Oliver said, “so we thought, even though it’s Friday… for old time’s sake?”

“You’re all the worst,” Kurt said, covering his face with one hand. “Up until five seconds ago, I was doing a really great job of keeping it together.”

“Papa, come on,” Audrey said, sitting down and gazing at him imploringly as she patted the arm of his chair. Kurt gave them all a watery smile and followed suit, tipping open the lid of the pastry box and busying himself with handing out the chocolate croissants (for Oliver and Blaine) and raspberry Muenster Danish (for Audrey) and setting his own artichoke and goat’s cheese croissant on a plate. The food was passed, Blaine switched on the radio, and Audrey handed him his newspaper already opened to the Style section.

And so they sat, eating their breakfast and sharing one last comfortable morning silence, each knowing that come mid-afternoon, there would be no denying that their time as a unit of four was coming to an end. Audrey and Oliver were as close together as possible, often glancing at one another with a certain tremulous quality to their smiles as they held silent conversations. Blaine watched them, and Kurt watched him, breathing in the fresh morning air as he hung by a thread.

*

“Twist, come on! It’s a long drive to Baltimore; you don’t wanna get there too late!”

“God, Dad, I’m coming!”

Audrey bit her lip in amusement as Blaine tried not to grind his teeth, instead watching Kurt fuss with his daughter’s hair and brush off her shoulders.

“Are you sure you have _everything?”_ Blaine asked, for the third time in as many minutes.

“And are you sure you don’t want us to come with you?” Kurt asked with a searching look. “Because it’s no problem, we can just drive you right up there and—“

“Dad, Papa, I’m _sure,”_ she replied firmly. “Everything’s packed into the car, we’re all going food shopping tomorrow and I’ll get my textbooks at the store on Monday. I’m all set. I even have a playlist set up for the drive that’ll help me decide which song to call in to _Live by Request._ Be afraid, Dad. Be very afraid.”

“I guess you _are_ all set,” Kurt conceded, and looked as though he was about to say more before becoming distracted by Oliver’s grunts of exertion as he hefted his last suitcase down the stairs.

“I’ve got it,” he managed, and something about the truth behind the statement shot straight to Blaine’s heart. Of course Oliver could handle getting his own suitcase down the stairs. Of course he could—probably better than Blaine would have been able to, given the problems he’d been having with his back as of late (not that he would admit it). That, however, was beside the point. Oliver was still just a kid— _his_ kid—and in about ten minutes time, he would be gone until Thanksgiving. Blaine had to keep himself from reaching out for the suitcase as Oliver strode past where he, Kurt and Audrey stood to take the suitcase down to his car.

“I guess this is what feeling useless is like,” he said, only half-joking.

“Dad, you’ll never be useless. Either of you,” Audrey said, looking between them both, her bottom lip beginning to tremble. “Please don’t ever think that—I mean… We’re coming home, okay? Just because we’re going to college, it doesn’t—it’s not going to be like that. We love you too much. You know Ollie’s not good at the emotional stuff. Remember Jenna? I just feel bad for his roommate the next time he goes through a bad break-up.”

“I won’t miss the loop of the same five sad songs. It reminds me too much of myself before your Dad came to his senses,” Kurt admitted, before hastening to add as Oliver reappeared in the doorway, “I’m going to miss you two so much. You know how proud you’ve made us, right? Every single day.”

Neither of the twins said a word, simply hugged each of their fathers in turn. It was a time neither for words of reassurance nor platitudes, for everything had already been said throughout each college visit, each form being filled in, each warm embrace, each time an acceptance letter had been received, each round of patient listening when decisions had to be made. It was instead a time for quiet, for absorbing the all-encompassing moment of calm stillness before the storm of change, so that each member of the Hummel-Anderson family could take it, hold it, and keep it carefully ensconced in a safe place.

When Audrey and Oliver walked out of the front door, pinky fingers linked as they descended the steps, Blaine took Kurt’s hand and squeezed it lightly, trying to anchor them both in the seas that had already begun to shift. They watched as their children held each other at the bottom of the steps, before each turning to their separate cars with lingering looks at one another.

“Hey, sis!” Oliver called, forearms resting on the top of his open car door. When Audrey turned, the tears in her eyes catching the sunlight, Oliver gave her a small smile and, finally conceding, said, “It was Obama.”

Audrey smiled, and shook her head. “No, it was Cuomo.”

She looked at Kurt and Blaine one last time, her expression equal parts fear and excitement, and then her car door closed. Her windows were rolled down, the engine rumbled into life, and then she was pulling away, up the street and turning the corner, and Audrey was gone.

“I can always come back, right?” Oliver called from inside his car, the sound of his voice pulling both Kurt and Blaine’s attention from watching the end of the street as if Audrey would come back. Blaine heard the sharp intake of breath, almost cried out as Kurt squeezed his hand harder than he had even on their wedding day.

“But you won’t,” Kurt exhaled, his voice full of a terrible sadness that swallowed up every ounce of the self-control he’d been hanging onto all day.

Carefully, watching Oliver clip his seat belt into place and start the engine, Blaine disentangled their fingers and put his arm around his husband, unable to stop himself from clutching at his arm like a lifeline.

“Our daughter’s going to be President some day,” he said quietly, leaning into Kurt but not taking his eyes off Oliver. “And our son’s going to be the best doctor in the whole world. They’re going to be amazing, Kurt, but in order to do that, they have to be set free. You know that, right?”

“Tomorrow, you’re going to tell me that that’s crap, and that you want them to come home,” Kurt replied, schooling his expression as Oliver waved to them one last time, then pulled away and down the street.

In a matter of minutes, the work of eighteen years had culminated. The sudden midday quiet of their neighborhood hit both Kurt and Blaine all at once, and they sat down on the top step, each leaning against opposite sides of the door frame.

“That’s it, then,” Kurt said after a few minutes, head turned to look out at the street. “We’re officially empty-nesters. All that’s left is for us to get fat from sublimating our sorrow with cheesecake, develop an interest in puzzles, and get dogs to act as substitute children.”

“Not that I would say no to the dogs or the cheesecake—especially not the cheesecake right now—but none of that’s going to happen,” Blaine said, nudging at Kurt’s thigh with his foot. “We might be an old married couple—“

“A _fabulous_ old married couple,” Kurt interjected half-heartedly, the words sounding habitual rather than backed by any real desire to correct.

Blaine smiled. “Exactly. We’re not _those_ parents, never have been. We still have a lot to do, you know. What about that plan that we had, to retire to Provincetown? The lighthouse and the artists’ colony? Or we could take that trip to Australia we’ve always thought about.”

“You’ve always thought about,” Kurt corrected him. “And it’ll take a lot more than telling me endless stories about koala bears to make me willing to go to a country located approximately three quarters of a mile from the surface of the sun.”

“But they sleep eighteen hours a day!”

“So do cats, and I could just go to the pet store to see that.”

“Hey,” Blaine said softly, “isn’t it time we had another kitty about the place? Or maybe a pup this time?”

The beginnings of a smile crept onto Kurt’s face, and he glanced back into the house. “Maybe. It’s going to be quiet here, after all,” he said. _“Really_ quiet. Let’s…”

“Let’s what?”

Abruptly, Kurt got to his feet. “Let’s get out to the house tonight. You’ve got that meeting all day tomorrow at the LGBT museum anyway, so why not?”

Blaine glanced up at his husband, the sun silhouetting him, and simply nodded. They didn’t even need to pack—Kurt always made sure to keep the closet in their Southampton home stocked with fashionable, season-appropriate attire, and they were five minutes from Waldbaum’s—they could just grab the car keys and go.

So they did, loosely holding hands over the center console as Kurt drove, both humming along to the radio. Blaine watched the other cars on the freeway, wondering if the people inside were heading home to houses devoid of their own children, whether for the first time or the twentieth. He wondered if they felt the gnawing ache in their chests where half of their heart was somewhere else. If they would wander from room to room expecting to see a young woman with her head buried in a book, or a young man on the phone to his uncle discussing the previous week’s big football games. If they would linger on each and every family portrait as they ascended the stairs, passed the empty bedrooms and the small library…

A smile slowly curved its way along Blaine’s lips. Because somewhere in the library, there was a book. _The_ Book.

*

_Saturday 27 August 2044_

As Kurt closed the finished Book with a sigh full of wistful nostalgia, Blaine looked down at his watch. “Hey,” he murmured, taking Kurt's hand once more and linking their fingers. “It's after midnight. Happy anniversary, handsome.”

“Twenty-five years married,” Kurt murmured almost disbelievingly, cupping his free hand to Blaine's cheek. “And thirty-three together.”

“Sick of me yet?” he asked.

“Never,” Kurt answered with a brief kiss. “I've told you this; we're getting to our seventy-fifth anniversary and you're buying me raw diamonds and a bar of gold. Since you're the one who insisted on us learning the list, and all.”

“Remind me, will that be our ‘together’ anniversary or our wedding anniversary?”

“Both, if I have anything to say about it,” Kurt said. “Just so you know, we're going to have a new addition to make tomorrow evening.”

“And what would that be, pray tell?” Blaine asked slyly.

“Something exciting and adventurous that I’ve spent weeks painstakingly planning,” Kurt said cryptically, standing up and holding his hand out to Blaine. “Your anniversary gift. The first part of which you’re about to get. You’re not tired, right?”

“I like the sound of that,” Blaine replied, taking Kurt’s hand and letting himself be led from the library. They paused at the door, glancing back at The Book where they had left it on top of the desk. The spine was cracked and worn, the corners weathered around the edges, and the elastic fastening strap had long since been stretched beyond its limit. It was a memoir, full to brimming with a love that had endured, that was modern enough to stand the test of time but old-fashioned enough to last forever. It was them, Kurt and Blaine Hummel-Anderson, and every important moment that had shaped them into the people they had become.

Sharing a silent smile, they switched off the lights, closing the door behind them with a soft _click._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Scrapbook:** [It's Time](http://borogroves.tumblr.com/post/39962038172) | [Somewhere Only We Know](http://borogroves.tumblr.com/post/39962048341) | [The Execution Ballet](http://borogroves.tumblr.com/post/31679210232)


	22. And All Roads Lead Back to You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** This chapter PG-13  
>  **Disclaimer:** I paint the pictures; I just borrow the names.  
>  **Notes:** Massive thank-yous to [Rachie](http://rachiefish.tumblr.com), my Alpha Beta, and [Axe](http://randomactsofdouchebaggery.tumblr.com), my Omega Beta. This story is now complete.

**Chapter Twenty-Two - And All Roads Lead Back to You**  
 _Sunday 28 August 2044_

When Blaine awoke the next morning, his sleep-sated limbs aching pleasantly, it was with a start. The bed was half-empty, and his phone was vibrating its way across the nightstand to fall onto the carpet with a soft thump. He ground the heel of his hand against his eyes and, squinting against the pale morning light, shifted himself sideways to grope around the floor, where it was still vibrating softly into the pile. If he had been more awake, he might have made a sound of triumph when his fingers closed around it, but as it was he simply fumbled it upright and swiped his thumb across the screen.

“Mmh.”

“Good morning, sleepy-head.”

“Kurt?”

“It’s time to wake up, honey. You’re going on an adventure today,” Kurt said cryptically, a note of wryness in his voice.

“What kind of adventure?”

“A special twenty-fifth anniversary adventure that I’ve planned out just for you. It’s a treasure hunt.”

“I thought the pirate days were behind us,” Blaine said after a pause, rolling onto his side and scrubbing at his eyes again. He blinked at the clock on Kurt’s nightstand, which was always set ten minutes fast and currently reading 8:04.

“I’ve come to the conclusion that, regrettably, the pirate days will never be behind us,” Kurt said with a sigh. “So instead, I’ve decided to embrace them.”

“I’m sorry, but what have you done with my husband?” Blaine asked, pulling the phone away from his ear just to make sure that it was really Kurt calling. “The last time I checked, Kurt Hummel-Anderson doesn’t concede defeat, and correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe that was your way of saying, ‘if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em’.”

“Time to get up now, honey,” Kurt said. “Your first clue is right next to you. Catch me if you can.”

The call clicked off, and as Blaine blinked himself further into wakefulness, he noticed a small, plush, stuffed gorilla propped against Kurt’s pillow, the covers pulled up to its furry chin.

He lay still for a few minutes, letting himself adjust to the day and watching the boughs of the oak tree outside their bedroom window sway against a backdrop of brilliant blue as he thought about what he had been doing, twenty-five years earlier, at the very moment in time: heading for the shower after having spent a half hour watching the Weather Channel for Local on the 8s, triple-checking to make sure it was going to be a beautiful day.

As Blaine got dressed, having carefully selected a cobalt blue polo, a pale blue textured bow tie and black, straight-leg jeans, Kurt’s words from the previous night played on his mind, along with snapshots of the hauntingly bereft dreams he’d had throughout the week leading up to the day he had finally dropped his reliance on pomp and circumstance and simply asked Kurt to be his first and last everything for the rest of forever. Would they really have found one another, amongst the crush and heat of New York City? Would they still have had firsts together? Would Blaine’s shoelaces still have unraveled at Kristy’s party, would a beautiful stranger have leaned down over him at the bottom of those steps, concern plain through the dark haze as Blaine fought himself back into consciousness? Would he later have still found himself writing letters and music on a ship in the middle of the ocean, sealing their envelopes and sending them on their way with a lonely kiss? Would he ever have found himself on a stage, or a beach, or in a hospital, someone he knew better than himself looking back at him with a love that brought him to his knees?

With one final tweak at the edges and a pat to the center of his bow tie, Blaine regarded himself critically in the full-length closet mirror, chewing absently at the inside of his mouth and trying to work out why he was suddenly nervous. He turned this way and that, unnecessarily straightening the hem of his shirt, and poked at his hair, ignoring the tiny urge to comb gel through his curls for the first time in three decades.

 _Stop it,_ he thought. _You look fine. You don’t need to be nervous; he knows where every single line on your face came from. He put most of them there himself. Stop it._

Shaking his head at himself, Blaine grinned and left the closet, retrieving a thin jacket as he went. Shrugging into it, he crossed the room to shut off his iPod, which had just begun playing William Orbit’s reimagining of _[L’Inverno](http://borogroves.tumblr.com/post/40026245104)_. It remained in his head as he went downstairs, grabbed his wallet and keys from the end table by the door—which also held a tall, thin vase containing two fresh pink carnations, entwined—and for the entirety of the drive back to Brooklyn. He was humming it as he climbed the stairs up to their room and set the box containing Kurt’s anniversary gifts in the center of the bureau, and he switched to whistling the tune as he left the house again, a light spring in his step, right up until he walked through the doors of Gorilla Coffee.

“Already paid for,” Lena told him a few minutes later, when she placed his steaming to-go cup on the counter in front of him. “That husband of yours is a keeper. He was waiting here when we opened this morning.”

“He was?”

“Yup. Special day?”

“Twenty-fifth anniversary,” Blaine answered, smiling as he shoved his wallet back into his pocket and took his coffee.

“Oh, you’ve got no idea what he’s got planned, do you?” she asked, and when Blaine shook his head, puzzled, she leant over the counter and continued, “he told me to tell you to double back on yourself and go to the playground. He has a car service picking you up in about a half hour, once you’ve had your first clue.”

“Which is…?”

“Waiting for you at the playground,” Lena said with a wink, before shooing him with a wave of her hand. “Now get that cute butt out of here, because trust me, you don’t want to be late.”

Blaine smiled again and nodded, raising his cup in thanks and heading outside. The light breeze was dwindling more and more the higher the sun climbed into the sky, and by the time he reached the playground, Blaine had removed his jacket and folded it over his arm. The playground was quiet for a Sunday, and it didn’t take him long to spot the people he was obviously there to meet, over by the jungle gym.

“Uncle Blaine!” Matthew cried as Blaine approached, and after setting down his coffee on the bench next to Sebastian, he swept the hyperactive four-year-old up to sit on his hip.

“What’s up, little mister?”

“We saw Uncle Kurt today!” Matthew told him, eyes focused on Blaine’s bow tie as he flicked at one of the corners.

“Oh yeah?” Blaine asked, glancing at Sebastian.

“Your charming husband got us up at the crack of dawn this morning,” Sebastian said faux-brightly, pushing his sunglasses up his nose. “Said he was calling in a favor.”

Oh, you mean from last Friday when we watched Matthew so that you could go on your D-A-T-E?” Blaine asked, bouncing Matthew on his hip and pointedly raising his eyebrows at Sebastian.

“Fine, fine, I owed you guys. He called the next day, by the way.”

“I know. I was the one who told him to,” Blaine said, setting Matthew on the ground when he began struggling. As soon as his feet touched the grass, he zoomed off towards the other end of the playground, scattering the small gathering of pigeons clustered around a discarded croissant.

“Matthew, stay where I can see you!” Sebastian called, sighing heavily and pinching the bridge of his nose beneath his Ray-Bans. “So you told Carter to call me, huh?”

“Well, I knew you wouldn’t pull your head out of your ass within an appropriate amount of time,” Blaine joked.

“Whoever would have thought that you and Kurt would be playing matchmaker for me, given our history?” Sebastian asked.

“That’s what growing up does, I guess,” Blaine mused, sipping his coffee. “Who we are now… eclipses who we were back then. We’ve got more important things to worry about.”

“Never thought I’d see the day that Kurt Hummel would agree to have anything to do with me ever again, though.”

“He’s… softened, over the years,” Blaine mused, fighting the urge to glance around and make sure Kurt wasn’t anywhere close enough to hear, even though he knew that it was highly unlikely. “He learned to let more people in. If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have let you help him, that day out at Grand Lake.”

They fell silent, watching Matthew clambering up and down over the jungle gym, smiling and waving at him whenever he turned to make sure they were still looking. Blaine let himself relax into the easiness of the morning—between work and getting the twins ready to go off to college, Blaine hadn’t gotten to see his godson nearly as often as he would have liked as of late, and some part of him had to admit that it was nice to have a little kid around when his own grown children already felt so far away.

“He helped me too, you know,” Sebastian said quietly. When Blaine turned to look at him, he had taken off his sunglasses and his eyes were fixed upon Matthew. “I was telling everyone I didn’t know what to do about the baby, after his dad… Guess I just, I don’t know, needed the reassurance. But Kurt saw right through me. Called Matthew ‘my son’ without even blinking. I think that was what helped… Helped make me see that I wasn’t just some stranger being handed a baby.”

“Matthew’s a lot like his dad,” Blaine observed, and Sebastian huffed a dry laugh.

“You have no idea. I mean, you’ve only seen pictures and you can see the resemblance, but it’s like having a miniature—“

“I meant you, Sebastian,” Blaine intoned gently. “I meant that he’s a lot like you, too.”

Blaine watched Sebastian fiddle with his ring finger, as if still trying to turn the wedding band he’d worn until shortly after Matthew’s second birthday.

“Only the good parts, I hope,” Sebastian said, before once more lowering his sunglasses over his eyes and rubbing his palms over his knees. “Anyway, I’m here to aid in Kurt’s sickeningly adorable and vomit-inducingly cute anniversary plan, so here.”

Sebastian rummaged through the side pocket of the oversized messenger bag resting by his feet and produced a small plaster figurine, handing it to Blaine with a shrug. Blaine turned it over in his hands: a small purple neck tie, overlaid with a gold fleur-de-lis motif.

_Blaine bit back the harsh, frustrated cry that had built in his throat as soon as he'd caught the sales assistant out of the corner of his eye. Just like that, the moment was gone._

_“Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry. Am I interrupting something?” the sales assistant—Thomas, Blaine read from his name tag—asked, nervously rushing over his words. After a long moment, Kurt turned to him with a tight smile._

_“Not at all. Thank you, Thomas,” he said smoothly, accepting the tie of rich purple silk overlaid with a gold fleur-de-lis motif. Thomas leaned forward a few inches, almost looking like he was about to bow as a servant would to his master, before scurrying back out of the changing rooms. Kurt chuckled nervously, eyes lingering on the tie before flickering upwards to meet Blaine's and biting his lip. “What were you saying?”_

He’s making fun of me,” Blaine mumbled, laughing to himself as he pocketed the tie. “Remind me to tell you the story sometime.”

“Oh, I definitely will. Looks like your car service is here, by the way,” Sebastian said, pointing through the fence to where an immaculately-dressed driver was emerging from a sleek black car.

“Thanks, Sebastian,” Blaine said, standing up and signaling to the driver that he’d be along in a moment. “So when are we watching Matthew next? There _is_ a second date, right?”

“Yes, there’s a second date,” Sebastian answered with a roll of his eyes and a soft smirk. “Next Friday?”

“I’ll check with Kurt, but that should work for us.”

“Thanks, killer,” Sebastian said, and Blaine smiled faintly at the old, affectionate nickname as Sebastian stood up, cupping his hands around his mouth and calling out, “Matthew, come say goodbye to Uncle Blaine!”

Matthew bolted towards them from where he’d just reached the bottom of the slide, almost tripping over his own feet, and wrapped his arms around Blaine’s leg.

“Bye, Uncle Blaine,” he said, looking up at him with a gap-toothed grin, and Blaine’s heart briefly clenched with the ache of missing the twins. He managed a bright smile, however, and ruffled Matthew’s shaggy brown hair as the boy detached himself. “Don’t be strange.”

“I think he means ‘don’t be a stranger’,” Sebastian clarified when Blaine shot him a puzzled look.

“See you Friday, little mister,” Blaine told him, grinning at Matthew’s cheerful whoop. “Later, Sebastian. And thanks again.”

“Just, next time, make it an afternoon thing?”

“Have you _met_ my husband?”

Sebastian simply waved him off, Matthew copying him after a second, and Blaine jogged out of the playground and around to the car, shielding his eyes against the sun.

“Good morning, sir,” the driver greeted him as he opened the rear passenger side door, his posture so straight that it reminded Blaine of a soldier standing to attention. He was at least six feet tall, with kind, gray eyes and a friendly smile to which Blaine immediately warmed. “I’m Harry, and I’ll be your driver for the day.”

“Morning, Harry. My name’s Blaine,” he said, shaking the driver’s hand. “Do you know where we’re going?”

Harry faltered for a moment, before answering, “yes, but I have very strict instructions from Mister Hummel-Anderson not to proceed until you’ve solved each clue. He was very… _Clear_ on that point.”

“I’m sure he was,” Blaine said, patting him on the arm reassuringly. “Well, you can relax. I know exactly where we’re going.”

*

The visit to Barney’s in SoHo was quick, with Blaine stopping by the men’s department to find his second clue—another plaster figurine, this time a cushion holding two wedding rings—hidden amongst the racks upon racks of ties. He’d smiled upon coming across it, catching the eye of the redheaded clerk who had been watching him since he’d strolled in, and he’d held up the figurine and winked at her, laughing inwardly at her visible sigh of relief that he’d found it.

“Where to next, sir?” Harry asked, pulling slowly away from the curb once Blaine was back inside the car.

“Just ‘Blaine’ is fine. And I’m pretty sure we’re headed to the Lighthouse. Pier Sixty,” he said, adding the last part for clarification.

“Is that where you got married?” Harry asked conversationally.

Blaine nodded. “Twenty-five years ago today.”

“Long time.”

“Yeah. Wow, yeah, it really is. Doesn’t feel like it.”

“You know what they say. The days drag but the years fly by.”

“No kidding,” Blaine agreed, asking after a pause, “are you married?”

“Not yet, but I will be next weekend.”

“Wow, that’s coming up quick. Congratulations!”

“Thanks. I’m glad of this extra shift today, actually. She’s… a little scary right now.”

_“Hey,” Blaine murmured, taking advantage of one of Kurt's more lucid moments and bending to wrap his arms around Kurt's shoulders and rock him gently. “You'll get there. You create amazing, beautiful things every day and you can do this. I believe in you.”_

_“At least someone does,” Kurt muttered under his breath, relaxing back into Blaine for a fleeting moment before inhaling deeply and running a hand through his hair, which was already standing up in approximately forty-nine different directions at once._

_“I have an idea,” Blaine whispered._

_“Ideas are good,” Kurt said, exhaustion clear in his voice. “Unless they involve drawing more fucking clothes because I swear to God, Blaine, if I ever so much as think about another dinner jacket, I won't be responsible for my actions.”_

“I know the feeling,” Blaine said fondly, glancing out of the window. “Just remember that she might seem crazy right now, but next weekend you get back the person you fell in love with.”

It seemed like no time at all later that he was stepping through the grand entrance to the Lighthouse and being greeted by a soft-spoken young woman who introduced herself as Rosalind—“Ros for short, I don’t mind.”—and ushering him down the exquisitely designed hallway towards the Navesink.

Inside, the entire room was set up exactly as it had been on their wedding day. Light spilled in through the floor-to-ceiling terrace windows, back-lighting the sprays of lilac and cherry blossom wound around the silk-draped archway. Rows upon rows of chairs sat empty either side of the petal-strewn aisle, and for a moment, Blaine paused.

_What if we were never here? What if I hadn’t felt his hand on my shoulder, or heard his voice over the footsteps on the staircase? Would I have always felt like something was out of place, that there was a hand, just out of reach, that I was meant to be holding?_

“Mister Hummel-Anderson?” Ros asked softly, her hand light on his arm. He blinked back the tears that he hadn’t felt welling, almost to the point of spilling over, and offered her a watery smile.

“I think there should be a clue of some kind here for me?” he asked after clearing his throat. Ros nodded, and handed over the notecard she had been holding underneath a small black remote control.

 _Blaine,_ it read, _I wanted you to experience a little of what I experienced—of what you gave me—all those years ago. When you’re ready, start walking down the aisle. Love always, Kurt._

He had only taken one step when, in his periphery, he saw Ros press a button on the remote and the entire room was filled with the same version of _[Teenage Dream](http://borogroves.tumblr.com/post/22736478956)_ he had sung so many years earlier, eyes fixed upon Kurt’s.

 _And there he was. There was only a half-beat between lyrics, yet time seemed to stop as Kurt rounded the corner on Burt's arm and paused mid-step to take everything in. His eyes roamed over the high ceilings, the ornate chairs, the aisle scattered with petals, before finally finding Blaine at the piano through the archway draped in white silk, cherry blossom and lilacs. Just like that, Blaine's every nerve was alight and he was flying. His voice was stronger, his heart was racing_ (like the song) _and Kurt was walking towards him with the most affirming smile Blaine had ever seen._

On the chair closest to the archway, there was a small box waiting atop another small notecard. Picking them up, Blaine sat down heavily, memories threatening to overwhelm him. It had been one thing to look back over photographs of their life together; it was quite another to relive it almost exactly as it had happened, as if Kurt had brought The Book back to life. He half-expected Cooper or Finn to jump out from somewhere and start fussing around him, asking him if he was alright every five minutes, without fail, as the longest morning of his life crawled by at a glacial pace.

He would have done it again, a thousand times over, in a heartbeat.

A single deep and bracing breath later, he opened the box to reveal a small silver key, unmarked save for the number 28. The accompanying note read, _you already have the key to my heart, so instead, have a key to the past._

After taking a moment to bask in the midday sunlight and thumb over the metal teeth of the key, Blaine got back to his feet. The song that he had long-since claimed for Kurt wrapped around him, and he had never wished so fervently—even during their numerous physical separations—to be able to hold his husband and sway in time with the first song to score their libretto.

He was already beginning to feel saturated, a thousand images of Kurt cycling through his mind’s eye, and he wondered just how much more his sweetheart had in store for him.

Reluctantly, he left the Navesink, thanking Ros and letting the impulse to hug her take him over, throat thick as he said goodbye.

When Blaine stepped back outside the Lighthouse, tipping his head back to welcome the heat and light beating down upon him, Harry was already holding the car door open for him.

Back on the road, Pier Sixty fading in the rear view, Blaine looked at the notes and figurines gathered in a small pile on top of his jacket, next to him on the backseat. Without prompting, he said, “Schwartz Travel Services, please.”

“Very good, sir.”

It wasn’t until they were stuck in traffic along West 34th that Blaine recalled Kurt’s parting words that morning: _Catch me if you can._ Harry seemed to pause for a moment when Blaine asked if he thought it was a possibility.

“I’m not sure, sir. Maybe at the stop after this one,” he finally answered, glancing at his watch almost surreptitiously.

The traffic eased somewhat after Dyer Avenue, and Harry was able to park almost right outside Schwartz. Blaine hurried inside, not wanting to waste a single moment. Though he knew Kurt had already revisited all of these places—probably multiple times, considering his proclivity for undertaking dry runs—it felt wrong, somehow, to be without him, to be walking in his footsteps rather than beside them. He needed something more tangible than the small offerings he had picked up along the way so far. Blaine needed his oak tree, steadfast and rooted to the earth.

To Blaine’s surprise, the high-ceilinged locker bank had barely changed since the day he had walked in with Kurt, nursing his bachelor party hangover yet thrumming with excitement to show Kurt what was ahead of them. He wondered if Kurt was now feeling that same sense of excitement as he moved onwards, ten steps in front and disappearing around every corner before Blaine could reach him.

The key slid easily into the lock, and as the door of the locker swung open, he felt some of the tension recede.

_Blaine had painstakingly recreated Kurt's locker at McKinley, complete with miniature postcard art, Mardi Gras beads and figurines, and the 'courage' collage (the only difference being that the photograph had changed from Blaine's Dalton picture to the photograph from their first prom together)._

_“Blaine, how—this is_ incredible,” _Kurt breathed, tracing his fingers over the collage. “What is all this for?”_

The vintage microphone; the picture of the two of them from the summer before Kurt left for college, Blaine’s head resting on Kurt’s shoulder as they smiled, easy and carefree; the silver quaver; a New Directions group photo; above it all, a collage of letters torn from magazines to spell out the word ‘love’.

Another notecard was in the locker itself, propped up, Blaine saw, by a small figurine of an apartment building bearing the number 2.

 _Too much?_ the note read, and Blaine could almost see the winking face that Kurt’s sense of decorum would have prevented him from adding.

“Always,” he murmured, chuckling, and when he turned the card over and saw _Change?_ he added, “never.”

Pausing to sit on the bench that ran down the center of the room, he took in the figurine. It didn’t look like either of the apartment buildings they had lived in, and neither of those apartments were numbered 2, but Kurt’s clues hadn’t been especially difficult so far, and Blaine quickly came to the conclusion that the figurine could only be urging him to their apartment on West 91st; their second place together.

Keeping hold of the key, he left Schwartz, asking Harry to get him to the apartment as quickly as he could, mindful that there was a possibility Kurt wasn’t too far ahead. Perhaps he would have stopped there for a breather, or for lunch, or even to let Blaine catch up to him. The thought spurred him on to the point of drumming his fingers against his thigh and willing the city to slip by even more quickly, like a child en route to a theme park or family vacation and asking, “are we there, yet?”

Upon arriving, Blaine rolled down his window, and the doorman was nodding to him with a genial smile before he could even ask if Kurt was there. Almost giddy, he gathered his things and retrieved his wallet, taking out a small wad of bills.

“Harry, your fiancée…”

“Stacey,” Harry supplied, a note of love and fondness in his voice.

“Stacey. Is she in the city today?”

“Yes, sir. Retail therapy with her maid of honor.”

“Go find her, take her to lunch. Let her know you were thinking about her,” Blaine instructed, reaching forward and pressing the money into Harry’s hand. “Don’t come back for at least an hour.”

“I—sir, it’s… Thank you.”

“It’s ‘Blaine’. And thank you,” he said, jumping out of the car and closing the door behind him in one smooth motion.

The lobby was a blur, and Blaine fidgeted for the entirety of the short yet endless elevator ride to his and Kurt’s floor. He was halfway out before the doors had even opened all the way, and he was just in time to see Kurt disappearing through the door to the stairwell at the end of the hall.

_Oh, there you are._

Blaine ran, making short work of the hall and bursting through the door, surmising that Kurt must have seen the elevator approaching and thus, just in case, decided to take the stairs. And now he was within the reach of Blaine’s outstretched fingertips, a smile quirking his profile as he kept on walking, and Blaine was close, so close, closer—

“Excuse me,” he said breathlessly, his hand landing on Kurt’s shoulder, “can I ask you a question?”

“You’ve already asked me all of the important ones,” Kurt replied, turning and crowding Blaine against the wall.

“Is that so?” Blaine asked, relaxing and unraveling and melting as Kurt’s arms wound around his neck.

“Mmhmm,” Kurt hummed against Blaine’s lips, exhaled breath and the faint smell of cologne as Kurt’s eyes locked on his. “’May I have this dance’, and ‘Will you marry me’, and ‘is that an actual someday’. Enough questions.”

“Yeah, okay,” Blaine agreed articulately, and tilted his head back against the wall as Kurt leant forward to brush his lips over Blaine’s. It was soft yet insistent, a silent promise and a reaffirmation of the past and the future and even that very second. It was a grounding and a homecoming.

“Come on, husband,” Kurt said, mouth resting just to the corner of Blaine’s for a moment before he pulled back. “As much as I love you, and you know that I do, we’re in a stairwell and I made your favorite for lunch.”

“Oh my god, _you're_ my favorite.”

“Too bad I’m only on the dinner menu.”

*

The inside of the apartment was invitingly cool and heavy with the aroma of chicken and chorizo paella, and Blaine collapsed onto the couch with a soft groan, his sense of momentum growing quiet as he palmed the three figurines and Kurt busied himself with reheating a bowl in the kitchen.

“You know, these clues have been pretty easy so far,” he mused, craning his head over the back of the couch.

“I know,” Kurt replied airily. “Maybe I’m just eager to give you your anniversary gift.”

“I know the feeling,” Blaine said, his voice little more than a whisper around a small, private smile as he thought of the discs of ivory adorning the golden necklace that Kurt had yearned for as a boy and still quietly dreamed of as the man he had become; the necklace that at the time, Blaine had only been able to substitute with a gum-wrapper ring. It had taken Blaine months to track down, weekends spent trawling auction listings and collectors’ records, all the way to a grand estate in St Augustine. It now waited—along with a vintage hippo-head brooch to match the one Kurt had lost somewhere during Milan Fashion Week years earlier—at home in Cobble Hill.

Soon, Kurt was placing a tray in Blaine’s lap that contained a steaming bowl of paella and, next to his knife and fork, another figurine: three black concentric circles painted over an ellipse of white.

“You’re not eating?” Blaine asked, his forkful paused halfway to his mouth. Kurt dismissed him with a wave and settled into Blaine’s side, head resting on his shoulder.

“I had some when it was hot the first time,” he explained. “I was so sure that you wouldn’t catch me, you know. I thought the tie or the building might have stumped you at least for a little bit.”

“You underestimate me. And anyway, history repeats itself. You know I always catch up eventually.”

“True.”

“Now that I _have_ caught you, though… You’re gonna need to help me out with this,” Blaine said, holding up the figurine. “Because I have no idea what this is supposed to be.”

“Come on, Blaine. What did we spend all of last night doing?”

“I mean, I figured that it was something from The Book. Which, by the way, I thought we weren’t supposed to look at without each other.”

“I figured you wouldn’t mind so much.”

“Okay, so something from The Book… Circles… Oh. _Oh.”_

“There it is.”

“Do you think she’ll remember us?”

“I don’t know. It’s been twenty-five years.”

“I always felt bad for not going back when she told us to.”

“Well, she said to go back when our future was our present, right? No real time limit on it,” Kurt reasoned, and took the figurine from Blaine, turning it over between his fingers. “But I think by now, we’ve achieved greatness, love and harmony. Don’t you?”

“Only one way to find out.”

*

As it happened, Nan did remember them.

Seating himself at her workstation, Blaine felt almost like he had gone back in time. He remembered the wooden stools, the cacophony of vendors shouting in a mix of English and Afrikaans, the look of wonder and excitement mixed with slight trepidation on Kurt’s face. And in the midst of it all, he remembered the oasis-like calm that surrounded Nan, the absolute knowledge in her dark eyes that bored into him as if she could see down to the very depths of his soul.

_Nan released his arm and held out her hand for Blaine's. Awkwardly, he rolled up his sleeve and hesitantly settled his wrist onto Nan's palm. She didn't start painting straight away, as she had with Kurt; she seemed to be searching out something in his eyes. It took all of his willpower not to break the eye contact._

_“You must stop hiding,” Nan said, simply, as he finally felt the wet press of ink against his skin. Inclining her head towards Kurt, she continued, “he sees you. I see you. But no one else. This is a shame.”_

She was a vision in butter-yellow, a batik bandana almost concealing the only real difference—her hair, faded into shades of gray and white.

For a long moment after they sat down, Nan did nothing, made no move to pull out her brushes and inks, or even to hold out her hand for one of them to present their arm. She simply held them in her unwavering gaze.

“I knew you would come back someday, but not so long,” she said, finally. “But your future is present, so you come for new future. Yes?”

Kurt nodded, and Nan smiled, looking back and forth between them as if considering something.

“When you come here before, your paths were different,” she said, retrieving two thin brushes from beneath the workstation. “But they crossed, like roads here. Lots of crosses, which tell me you belong. You are his, he is yours. Still, yes?”

“Always,” Blaine answered.

“Yes, always. Now, you have the same path,” Nan continued, gesturing for them both to lay their arms palm up on the wood. She picked up both brushes, one in either hand, and began to paint their symbols simultaneously, both hands working in perfect synchronicity. “Same path is not for everyone. It can change, but with you, I think not. This is not usual.”

To Blaine, it felt like proof.

In the thick August heat, such a contrast to that freezing day in January, the ink of the first symbol was dry on his arm before she had finished the third. When he glanced at Kurt’s arm, Blaine saw that he wore a set of symbols identical to his own, and Kurt’s eyes went just as wide as they both gazed at Nan.

“Past, _okodee mmowere,_ which is bravery,” she said, all business as she pointed to the thick line crossed three times. “You faced bad things, and still belong. But you know this.

“Your present, I see, is _nyame nnwu na mawu._ This is life after death.” Kurt visibly bristled, his shoulders square as he straightened his back and gazed at the symbol: two perpendicular lines, another cross. “It means life carry on. You cannot stop this, so you cannot waste time trying. You get weak if you hold the past too close for too long.

“And future, this will be your favorite. You will remember a song,” Nan said, her eyes on Blaine while she pointed to the third symbol, which almost looked like a butterfly. _“Hye won hye,_ which will never burn or perish. You will endure, this cannot be doubted. You stay as you are.”

_You and I will be young forever…_

Before Blaine knew what was happening, Kurt was on his feet and leaning over the workstation, wrapping his arms around this enigmatic, effervescent woman who had now, on two occasions decades apart, somehow shown them everything.

“Thank you,” Kurt whispered as he pulled back, and Blaine saw tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. Kurt reached up to his chest, unpinned the antique brass brooch that offset the chocolate brown of his shirt, and held it out. “May I?”

Nan nodded, her slightly raised eyebrows the only outward sign of surprise, and Blaine watched as Kurt fastened it in place over her heart.

“It’s a turtle,” Kurt explained, tweaking it until it was straight. “It’s for longevity.”

“I have lived a long time already.”

“And I hope you still have a long time left.”

“I would tell you to keep him,” Nan said to Blaine, fingering the brooch, “but I know you will.”

It was as close to a joke as he could imagine Nan getting, and he let out a hearty laugh. “I definitely will.”

“Now you must go. You are almost late to see the man on the hill.”

“How did you…” Kurt trailed off, reaching into his bag and pulling out a figurine. It was indeed a man, wearing a chef’s toque and standing atop a painted green hill.

“I see,” Nan said simply. “Don’t be late.”

Blaine took the figurine and stood, winding his arm around Kurt’s waist and squeezing. “Thank you,” he said, and Nan nodded.

When they were a few paces away, comfortable in their contemplative silence, Blaine looked back. The last he saw of Nan before they walked by a vendor selling tribal-themed wall art was her soft smile as she ran her fingers around and around the turtle brooch.

*

“So, old man,” Kurt said breezily as Harry pulled away, leaving the Harlem Market behind in search of the next leg of the treasure hunt, “where to next?”

“You’re still conveniently forgetting which of us is the older one,” Blaine replied, his thumb rubbing against the figurine’s green hilltop as he bought himself extra seconds that he didn’t really need.

“You’ve never had to talk _me_ out of buying a red sports car, thank you very much. And there I was, always thinking you had better taste.”

“So I had my midlife crisis a little early. At least I was ahead of the curve.”

“One of the few times.”

“Kurt.”

“What, you’re allowed to joke about it and I’m not?” Kurt asked haughtily, before glancing across the back seat.

Blaine could see the very moment that he reluctantly and silently conceded defeat: eyes flicking towards the figurine and an infinitesimal tightening in his fingers, like he was resisting the urge to reach out and grab it, demanding to know their destination as if it was really Blaine holding all the cards, close to his chest, to be revealed one by one.

“Okay, okay, just—“

“Hillman’s, of course,” Blaine interrupted, placing his hand on Kurt’s arm and adding to Harry, “East 82nd, between Casablanca and Sly’s.”

Kurt covered Blaine’s hand with his own, turning sideways in his seat and leaning his cheek against the headrest, and simply looked at him.

“Thank you for today,” he said after a pause, and Blaine grinned.

“Shouldn’t that be my line?”

“Not just yet,” Kurt said cryptically, and then shook his head with a small smile. “I meant thank you as in, look how far we’ve come. Twenty-five years, Blaine. You’ve given me so much to be glad for. The only ones that have us beat are Mike and Tina.”

“And you’ll be forever bitter about that,” Blaine said knowingly, twining their fingers together.

Kurt let out a dramatic sigh. “Doesn’t do the same thing to them as it does to you, though, when I win. It’s not as much fun. Seriously, though—“

“I know, sweetheart. I know,” Blaine said, thinking for a moment. “Come to think of it, look at how far we’ve all come. Mike and Tina are grandparents already, and Finn and Lila’s eldest graduated in May.”

“Wes and Mercedes, Kristy and your brother, Rachel and Dominic…”

“Did I tell you that Jeff and Stuart got back together?”

“Stop,” Kurt said, sitting up. “They did not.”

“They did,” Blaine confirmed brightly.

“I knew it. I always knew they were it,” Kurt said, satisfied, and squeezed Blaine’s hand. “Just like us.”

*

“Guys, the place looks…” Blaine trailed off, staring in wonder as he took in the completely refurbished restaurant interior. He had left Kurt outside talking to Harry, no doubt giving him more instructions, and let himself in through the heavy door of Hillman’s, currently adorned with a sign that read _‘Grand Reopening on Saturday, September 3’._ It looked as though the place had been gutted, stripped back to its very frame and rebuilt from scratch. Everything was brand new, never used, still with the shine and scent and novelty lingering even as it all assimilated into place, like it was always meant to be there. The placed somehow managed to be opulent at the same time as not being overly grand, and the décor was warm and inviting—cozy even, for such a large space that was empty save for himself, Toby, Andrew, and Kurt just stepping through the door behind him and approaching the bar at which they sat. “It looks like your dream. How did you do this?”

“With a metric fuck-ton of money,” Andrew deadpanned, sipping his Negroni and leaning over the bar to accept Toby’s fleeting kiss. “And him. It’s all him.”

“Please. This is how it was always meant to look, and you’re the one who designed it,” Toby said, passing Kurt a French martini.

“How does it feel to be the most talked-about reopening since The Findlay?” Kurt asked, and Andrew grinned, not even bothering to try and hide it.

“Fucking awesome, actually. Let’s just hope we can still live up to the hype.”

Blaine snorted derisively. “Now you’re just fishing for compliments. You’re a culinary genius, and you know it.”

“Speaking of which,” Toby said, and he reached under the bar, producing two small, white dessert boxes. They both bore the Hillman’s logo on the lid, and one was decorated with crosses, the other with circles. “You two have been our closest friends for a long time, through so much, and so we thought it was only right for you to be the first to sample our two newest desserts on the menu. Andrew created them specially.”

“He did?” Blaine asked, sliding the box with the crosses closer to him and moving to open it, but Kurt’s hand shot across the bar, nearly tipping over his martini glass in the process. He grabbed the box from Blaine and cradled it to his chest, leaving Blaine to stare at him, mouth slightly agape and feeling completely confused. “Am I missing something?”

Kurt seemed to flounder for a moment before he composed himself, setting the box down on the bar and fiddling with it until it was perfectly square to its companion. The only explanation he offered was, “they’re for later.”

“Come on, Blaine. You know Kurt; he just doesn’t want to try them in front of me in case they suck,” Andrew said, one eyebrow raised sardonically. “Remember the sea bass?”

“Oh my god, I’ll never forget that pinched look on his face,” Toby chimed in, failing to stifle a laugh. “What was it he said?”

“’It’s very, um… And how soon is this going on your menu?’ Fucking priceless,” Andrew provided, in a near-perfect impression of Kurt that had Blaine laughing so hard he almost fell off his bar stool, so much so that he didn’t notice that Kurt had downed his drink in one swift gulp and moved to stand beside him until another figurine appeared before him on the bar.

It was a traditional medieval knight, he saw, backed by a banner of the exact orange and blue used in the artwork for his debut album. Instead of a sword, its hands rested upon a guitar, and beneath its feet was a layer of painted snow, shimmering in the lights above the bar.

“Time for you to get going?” Andrew asked, and Blaine nodded silently as he picked up the figurine, knowing exactly where they were heading, and that it must surely be the last stop on the treasure hunt. He turned to look at Kurt just in time to catch him exchanging a meaningful glance with Toby, accompanied by a mouthed thank you, and couldn’t help feeling anticipative at the same time as being on the outside of something.

“Opening night next Saturday,” Toby reminded them.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Blaine murmured, still unable to tear his eyes from Kurt.

“Ready, honey?” Kurt asked, holding out his hand but not quite meeting Blaine’s gaze.

“Let’s go.”

*

Their hand-in-hand walk along the Mall was leisurely; all about the quiet they could share, the things they could point out to one another as they passed artists and musicians and families, and everything else they loved about Central Park. It was a fitting end to the treasure hunt, Blaine knew, as so much had happened there, to both of them—separately and together. It wasn’t their only place in Manhattan, of course, but he held it right next to his heart, and he knew Kurt did too.

Silently, they approached and descended the steps, watching as children giggled and jumped up to pop the giant, lazy bubbles being blown for them on Bethesda Terrace. Blaine felt almost as weightless when he turned his attention to the fountain itself, recalling two people much younger, with so much still ahead of them, and he wondered, _could we ever have known?_

They walked once around the fountain before coming to a halt right before the angel, Kurt placing their things on the low wall and clasping his hands together almost nervously.

“There are certain times of year when you tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” Kurt began. “Times when it’s more important than ever to say exactly what’s in your heart. And one of those times is today, and what’s in my heart is you, and this:

 _“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; so I love you because I know no other way than this,”_ Kurt recited, taking Blaine's hand and holding it to his own chest. Blaine smiled, the sense memory of standing on the stage of the April Rhodes Civic Pavilion six hundred miles away washing through him. _“Where I does not exist, nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep._

“Now, I know earlier today I told you no more questions. But I do have one question,” Kurt said, stooping to retrieve one of the small, white dessert boxes, and Blaine suddenly saw the X marking the spot, like a mirage that had been swimming before his eyes all day but was only now coming into startling focus.

_When they finally reached Bethesda Fountain, Blaine turned to face Kurt. The snow cast an ethereal light all around them; the angel in the center watched over them; footprints lead back the way they'd come and there was nothing ahead of them but a blanket of pure white. This was it._

_In one smooth motion, he swung his guitar around his body and settled it across his middle, his sore fingers easily finding the chords of the song that had come tearing out of him that afternoon. It was rough and so far from perfect, but it was him._

_“Kurt, I have tried to do this so many ways,” Blaine began, and Kurt wrapped his arms tighter around himself, looking simultaneously guilty and anticipative. “But nothing has worked. And I thought it was me; that there was something wrong and it had me worried, you know, that this wasn't... Wasn't going to work. But now I know that I could only ever have done this here, in this place, on this night.”_

“Which is…?”

Slowly, Kurt sank to one knee. He opened the lid of the dessert box to reveal a smaller box within, all dressed up in black velvet, out of which he took a thick platinum band, unmarked save for a single, engraved oak leaf. “Blaine Devon Hummel-Anderson, will you marry me again?”

A hush descended around them, and Blaine glanced around to see passersby stopping in their tracks to watch what was unfolding. He felt a warmth creeping up his neck and blooming on his cheeks at the attention—give him a stage with a microphone in front of a heaving crowd and he could entertain for hours, but his world had been zeroed to the singular sensation of Kurt’s right hand taking his left, the eternity ring held ready.

“You really want me for another fifty years?” he asked, and Kurt slid the ring onto his finger, as if it was confirmation enough.

“On one condition,” Kurt answered with a sly grin. “I get to plan this one.”

“Yes, Kurt, of course I’ll marry you again,” Blaine exclaimed, laughing as he took Kurt by the hand and pulled him to his feet, flush against his own body, and caught his mouth in a kiss that made him tremble. Dimly, he registered cheers and clapping, but all he really knew were Kurt’s hands in his hair, Kurt’s lips on his own, Kurt’s heart right next to his, just like always.

 _“You make me feel like I’m livin’ a teenage dream,”_ he whisper-sang next to Kurt’s ear when they broke apart, holding as tightly close as he could, like he’d never get enough. He never wanted to get enough.

Kurt was laughing at the applause, sunlight catching the tears in his eyes as he stepped back and took a slim camera from his back pocket. “Told you we’d have something new to put in The Book today.”

“I love you so much,” Blaine said as Kurt stepped behind him, hooking his chin over Blaine’s shoulder and wrapping an arm around his waist as he held the camera aloft.

“I love you, too. Too much?”

“Always.”

“Change?”

“You should know the answer to that by now.”

_Click!_

* * *

**the end.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Scrapbook:** [L'Inverno](http://borogroves.tumblr.com/post/40026245104) | [Teenage Dream](http://borogroves.tumblr.com/post/22736478956) | [Treasure Hunt](http://borogroves.tumblr.com/post/40032715060)
> 
> * * *
> 
>  **Author's Note:** That's all, folks! Please review, and thank you for sticking with me 'til the end. For behind-the-scenes goodies, head on over to my [Snapshots Masterpost](http://borogroves.tumblr.com/snapshots), and if you're so inclined, you can read my feature-length final author's note [here](http://borogroves.tumblr.com/post/40008248882). It's been a pleasure.


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